Threads of Spirit
by Zuranh Darok
Summary: Six years before FFVII, a rogue group has a plan to overthrow the balance of power on Gaea. But the key to their victory is not yet theirs, and how the threads of spirit are woven is ever uncertain.
1. Quiet Time

(A/N: Before I begin, I'd just like to say that I once looked upon this medium in skepticism, but a few weeks of general browsing cured me of that. I hope I can learn something from my time here.

On canon: This is set several years before the game, and since I haven't seen any of the new FF7-oriented media other than AC, a lot of this is ambiguous. However, it is _not_ exactly AU, either; I'm not making any huge deviations from the canon I know of the game. Hope no one finds that too troubling.

Note that long italics designate a flashback, and short italics designate a thought. Long italics refer to a paragraph or more in length.

Bear in mind that I don't think of myself to be a very good writer; I'm always seeking to improve and I welcome the opinions of others. Now, let's get this started.)

Disclaimer: Final Fantasy VII is the property of Square-Enix. Original characters and ideas are my own.

* * *

**Threads of Spirit:  
Quiet Time**

Shadows were the only constant in the slums of Midgar. Shadows, and tears. One to hide, and the other to weaken. One to doubt, and the other to break. Every day the people stepped into that world of resentment and fear, a world of desperation and pleading, apathetic and uncaring. It was a world where one wished to hide in, a world where one wished to weep. And those above were only too willing to give them a place to do so.

The old train, dying in a lingering fashion so like the Sector it was manufactured in, stopped gradually, its Mako-adapted engines slowing to a groaning halt and the brakes applying themselves with a soft, if protracted squeak. Of the dozen passengers on the last line from the Sector One plate to the Sector Five slums, all but one had been lightly napping and thus weren't in any position to be bothered by it. They fitfully awoke as the conductor called for them to depart, his own voice weary at this late hour. The one who hadn't been asleep didn't care anyways about the noise and had already walked out of the compartment, not wanting to be troubled or delayed.

Shrugging his midnight black trench coat back into its normal position, which had been disrupted by the slight jostling of the train, Sephiroth began walking slowly but purposefully, letting his slanted eyes drift across everything in his path and storing it away for future reference. Any good military commander had to have an eye for terrain in order to survive, and the General was a master of reconnaissance, as well as everything else necessary to prosecute any armed conflict. Recalling the morning's conversation perfectly – it wouldn't have mattered if it had occurred half a year before; he smirked slightly and shook his head, silver bangs swaying slightly with the motion.

_He had never been actually invited to these bi-weekly meetings, and nowhere was it said that one of his rank was meant to attend, but Sephiroth had been so instrumental in Shinra' s plans that not one of the five department heads had remarked on it when another chair, straight-backed and of dark wood, was added to the conference table, rich oak lined with gold. The General had tried not to miss a gathering ever since he began to attend – overseeing the war both on the front and as a commander didn't make for easy long-term schedules – which certainly couldn't be said of the people who were actually meant to be there. Idling in his hard-backed chair, the swordsman let his eyes take in the room, disregarding the elegant wall tapestries and exquisite original paintings. Shinra, man and company both, loved to spend to excess for no reason than to prove it possible._

_He fully expected Professor Tideki Hojo to be off conducting another experiment and disregarding the summons, and he all but knew that Charles Palmer II would also be nowhere to be seen. Sephiroth didn't care much for either of them; one too inhuman to see anything not laid on a microscope slide, the other a fat buffoon lacking any practical use whatsoever. He wondered idly how both of them had ever been hired._

_In fact, at the moment, only he and Reeve were sitting at the table. The others, in a truly bourgeoisie way, seemed to think that it was quite all right to arrive half an hour after being called, but they two at least recognized the importance of punctuality, which for both meant life or death, albeit in very different ways, and under very different circumstances. Sephiroth was glad that he was able to tolerate Reeve's presence. It would have made for very painful waiting, otherwise, and he hated to wait, always preferring to be the master of his own decisions and actions._

_Shaking his head mentally at the President's wisdom or lack thereof, he focused on what the man sitting across from him was saying. That one, Sephiroth admitted with grudging respect, knew what he was talking about, and unlike others in his downsized department; he remembered that there were people in the cities he planned, and that they weren't just profit generators, but places where millions of stories were told on a daily basis. Sephiroth agreed wholeheartedly, but for a different reason. Riots and civil unrests were such pains to deal with without harming structural and technological infrastructure, and there was no point forcing the issue when it could be decided by simply re-allocating a few million Gil – a pittance – from the elitists on the Plate to the more unfortunate people of the slums. The General was not so heartless as to deny the hopelessness of their collective situation, partly born of bad luck and partly from the acts of the corporation he served. For now._

"_Are you listening, General?" Reeve remarked with a slight air of annoyance. Upon seeing the silver-haired man shrug, the middle-aged man sighed, raking a hand through his brown-black hair. "I was saying that you should consider visiting the slums and reporting on their situation. It's as good a use of your leave as sitting in your room reading, don't you think?"_

_That was the other thing Sephiroth liked about the Urban Development head. He never fawned, curried favor, or lied to make things sound better. In the banquet celebrating the surrender of Wutai, Heidegger and Scarlet were all too busy congratulating and piling lavish compliments on him until he growled at them to stop, while Reeve had talked with him about expanding business interests to compensate for the sudden change of the balance of power in the area. While Sephiroth didn't really care about that particular field of knowledge, he was pleased that they could speak straightly with one another, disabusing politics and etiquette. It was comforting. Relaxing, in a way. Of course, Reeve never used his name, and that was just as well. Colleagues were not necessarily friends._

"_Reeve, we both know that I have no little disinterest in walking through the slums. If you need data, send your subordinates. They're the ones who get paid to do it, supposedly." The two shared a smirk at that. Commissioners of Midgar were usually found sitting in their overly lavish offices wasting their time or making shady deals in high-end restaurants with local business heads. To the General, it was like finding out that your forward scouts were drawing up troop placement maps from their imaginations and committing high treason on a daily basis. On the battlefield, it would have meant death, but the bureaucracy here was too stiff and unbending in its self-perpetuation. The Commissioners' practices were so common as to be accepted. Shinra disgusted him._

"_I'm serious, General. The Sector Five pillar was supposed to be down-checked for maintenance over half a year ago, but the war was in the way and the President decided to let it sit. Manufacturers as they are, we're lucky that the Plate hasn't collapsed on us, yet. And of course I don't trust my own personnel to inspect it correctly." Reeve laughed bitterly, taking a deep draught of the coffee he preferred. Sephiroth had tried it once out of politeness, but he didn't require caffeine to operate for extended periods of time, and the bitter, dark brew didn't appeal at all to his tastes. Sitting before the swordsman, instead, was a tall glass of iced lemonade. He had first tried it four years ago, and the taste was still distinctively favorable to him; the chef had an arrangement with the General to deliver a pitcher every morning. Reeve had found it beyond amusing, but Sephiroth thought it helped him concentrate. _That_, both knew, would cause uproar if it ever leaked. The swordsman took a sip and considered the unspoken offer. Planet Life could wait, he decided. Besides, his personal apartments were on the Sector 5 plate. Both of them knew that, of course. "Fine, Reeve. I'll take a look at the pillar for you later today. I'll keep an eye out for other details, too."_

_Reeve smiled mildly and nodded his appreciation. The General, both knew, would end up procuring a report dozens of pages long examining every tiny detail that he stumbled across, from the humidity content – carefully controlled to avoid structural degradation – to the price of grain – far higher than necessary. That was how Sephiroth operated; it was a method instilled from years of command, and no one was in a hurry to tell him otherwise, either from indifference, fear, or respect. Reeve was one of the latter._

_As the heavily carved and embossed door opened, Sephiroth casually allowed his eyes to take in the newcomers; his extensive time in the military had taught him a lot about observation, though he had mastered the existing year-long textbook training in a week and produced a document six times longer, of his own compilation, for future cadets. _

_President Shinra came in "first", of course, his red silk suit straining from bulk that the lines of golden buttons barely contained. His blue eyes pierced and saw possible danger from miles away; after all, he had turned the corporation from a small electric company into a monopoly of immense proportions, and it hadn't been done without his share of attempted assassinations. His hair was beginning to thin, now, and he was putting on weight, but his mind was still operating at razor sharpness. He nodded once to Sephiroth, as a master to his dog, and ignored Reeve completely. The two had been on strained terms of late._

_Heidegger followed, his dark green military uniform bedecked with awards he did not deserve, from battles he had not been anywhere near and involving valor that he did not have. The Head of Public Welfare was an arrogant fool in Sephiroth's opinion, one who knew nothing of military doctrine and would have merely wasted men and resources had he ever been allowed to lead. The General had been pleased that he had remained in Midgar to" supervise", a term which both knew had absolutely no merit whatsoever, as Sephiroth had coordinated everything from his personal directive. With a false grin planted behind his monstrosity of a beard, his bulk – muscle, though, not fat – made the chair creak slightly as he sat upon it. Sephiroth watched him carefully at all times; he knew that Heidegger was incompetent, but the man in question did not agree, and ignorant incompetents always had the potential to be a threat, and they were _always _nuisances. As usual, he attempted to strike up a worthless conversation with Reeve, who batted away his moronic words with a tired patience. Sephiroth mentally sighed; it seemed this meeting would be routine in all manners._

_Scarlet closed the door behind her as she entered at the end of the group, cold eyes calculating as always. She wore her typical blood-red dress, cut low to reveal an expanse of pale bosom and with long slits on the skirt that bared her legs to the mid-thigh when she moved. For all of that, Sephiroth respected the head of Weapons Development for her ability to undercut anyone whom she thought stood in her way, and she was unafraid to use whatever was at hand to advance her position. It was rare indeed for a woman to get so high up in any corporation. However, she had an undue liking for the infliction of pain, even when a single, well-calculated surgical strike would be far more effective. A good interrogator, but not at all what the General would have wanted on the front lines. Laughing in her sultry, throaty way at whatever inane drivel Heidegger was spouting, she eased herself into her chair, not bothering at all to re-arrange her skirts. She was dangerous, perhaps, but too engrossed in the temporal to be a real threat._

Sephiroth snorted softly. That meeting had truly been a waste of time for him, with the President discussing how to further line their pockets, even though all of them had at least nine figures of hard currency for various purposes. Reeve had wanted to push for a focused development campaign through all of the continents, starting up new settlements and towns while renovating the existing cities. In time, it would have been massively profitable, but Scarlet had been resolved on further armament for the armed forces, even installing a massive cannon in Junon harbor. Sephiroth had very carefully not asked what in the world she thought it could possibly be used for, now that Wutai was crushed and the last of the rebel militias were quieting down after witnessing how Shinra had completely and utterly annihilated the Wutain Imperial Army. Of course, the political situation as it was, very likely Scarlet would get her wish, if not for its validity, then merely because the President wished to spite the Urban Development head. A cannon across the ocean, of all things... Sephiroth decided to focus at the task at hand.

The first impression of the area was not at all good from the General's perspective. The air, trapped as it was between the plate and the locked gates of the city, was thick with smoke and smog, which Sephiroth ignored and the locals were apparently used to. Trash lay in random heaps, adding its own rotten sweetness into the air, along with various junk piles and twisted, rusting shapes that he could only guess the original function of. The locals, he noted, walked with heads down and faces covered, and everyone carried weapons, though not openly. Eyes such as his, though, sharpened by Mako and knowing what to look for from both textbook readings and years of practical examination in Wutai, picked them out in an instant. Knives seemed prevalent, as they were fairly easy to hide, though one graying man was probably concealing a gun in his overlarge jacket, while another had throwing stars, of all things, tucked into his boots.

Even knowing that he could annihilate all of them instantly, Sephiroth's instincts warned him not to act so indolently around armed hostiles. With a thought, the Masamune appeared in his hand, earning a few shocked gasps from nearby spectators. He didn't know how he did it, but he could, and that was good enough for his purposes. He took a moment to simply savor the power flowing through the blade, the blade he had never known life without. His earliest memory, of a young, determined adolescent walking into one of Shinra's recruiting centers, had him holding the Masamune - the name came unbidden, just as the sky was called the sky. He hadn't gone a day since without handling it, as he alone could do. The blade was not all that heavy, and he knew somewhere there was another man of the necessary height and strength to at least pick it up, but for all of his years in Shinra's military, no one but himself could raise it a mere millimeter. He did not understand why, but he didn't really care, either. If it served his image and heightened his subordinates' respect and fear of him, so much the better. Now he was truly safe from anything these locals could do.

The general aura of mistrust and suppressed hatred was overwhelming. Sephiroth immediately understood Reeve's purpose in telling him to visit. Shinra's official media portrayed the slums as a happy place, if not an affluent one, but the General thought wryly that either the backgrounds had been carefully cleaned before the taping or had been constructed like backdrops on a theater stage. The people in those broadcasts were always smiling, or at least appeared amused, but Sephiroth didn't see a single expression before him other than grim neutrality. They knew their hopeless scenario but couldn't afford to give up. The General had seen the look before, when the Wutain soldiers had lost so many battles that each narrow victory seemed only a delay of the inevitable, when a tide of despair had overrun the entire nation. And yet they had fought on, resorting to blades and even their bare hands when their weapons failed them. He remembered watching bloodied fields as Shinra machine guns decimated the rows and columns of Wutain soldiers, all screaming and charging, knowing how hopeless their task was and yet refusing to give up. He had watched impassively then, but observing the exact same thing in the city of those whom he had been fighting for... its shook him, so much that he forgot momentarily to let his memory do its work.

Walking slowly down a street lined with trash and rubbish, he once again began to record everything he observed in the recesses of his mind for future analysis. He had a job to do, and another part of his mind was focused on going over just how he was supposed to check the pillar without having it explode or do something embarrassing of a similar nature. That was when he heard a voice, soft and timid, from behind him.

"Excuse me?"

* * *

Today had been a bad one, Aeris thought, though it was increasingly harder and harder to discern between the good and the bad; they all blurred and merged into a similar shade of gray. A light rain had washed the Plate, and while she welcomed the influx of cool air, not many people had been on the streets, and those who had were plainly hurrying, not interested in buying flowers. She hadn't made a single sell for the entire day, and that meant there wouldn't be any breakfast on the table tomorrow. With only a heel of bread tonight, her stomach was already muttering. Elmyra would look at her and do nothing of course; it certainly wasn't her fault Shinra didn't pay out her pension. All the same, Aeris couldn't help but wilt at disappointment and sadness in her foster mother's eyes.

She only knew that the woman wasn't her birth mother because Aeris had asked on her tenth birthday, to be responded to with soft words and what was meant to be a soothing smile. The other important event of that day was more troubling; it was the first time she remembered that the voices had begun speaking to her. They had seemed rambling, chaotic and unintelligible at first, but with the passing months they had became more coherent, more clearly directed at her. That was when she asked about her past, the first time _she_ had consciously directed a thought towards _them_. She tried to remember things before her eighth birthday, but her memories came up only as a hazy blur of sounds and colors. Something ingrained deep within her told her that she didn't want to find out the truth, and eventually she simply stopped wondering what her life had been like or who her real mother was. Life in the slums had left little time for idle thoughts, so she let the matter rest and took the new speakers in her mind in stride. Aeris had few other choices available, after all.

She had been asleep on the train, weary after a long day of walking and talking, and she hadn't noticed the man who'd lounged in the back of the compartment, the shadows easily blending with his clothes. After waking up to groggily totter off the train back to her home, though, she became aware of the man striding purposefully ahead of her, and her curiosity, which Elmyra had always said would get her into trouble, had gotten the better of her. After all, this was probably the chance of a lifetime to _talk_ to the Great General Sephiroth. If nothing else, Aeris as a young woman shared the desires and fantasies, however absurd and unlikely in retrospect, of her peers; Sephiroth easily fulfilled the role of "most desirable male" in so many ways. And it _was_ her birthday, though Aeris had the sinking feeling that she was the only one alive who cared. She was sixteen now, and she could do whatever she wanted. Or, at least, that's what she told herself.

And so, she, like a stone-blind idiot, had run off towards him to close the distance from his long stride, well aware of all of the stares in her direction from the people of the slums. Noticing just how tall he was, she called to him in a somewhat small voice. "Excuse me?" Part of her, a small voice in the back of her head, was afraid, almost trembling at the thought of being scrutinized by the man who had killed thousands, but the greater by far was full of adamant curiosity and stubbornness. The man seemed uncertain whether or not to face her, which struck Aeris as _very_ strange, indeed.

After a moment's consideration, though, he did, and Aeris took a step back. That small voice urged her to run, but she forced it down by strength of will. His eyes had been what shocked her, a bright, piercing green that seemed to glow and shine in the permanent semi-darkness of the slums. She knew from the media that his eyes were that color, but in the pictures and television footage, it had seemed dull, perhaps because of the pickup of the recorders, and perhaps for other reasons. Here and now, they positively blazed with energy, and it seemed all of it was focused on her small, thin frame. Light, but she was a fool for attempting this. The voice agreed with her. She winced mentally at the thought of the dirt staining her face, her coat, and her pink dress. The latter two were threadbare and worn, and she realized sadly that the rest of her was hardly better off, having spent the day in the rain. Cleanliness was never a priority in the slums – it if nothing else only made you more a target, but she knew her first impression on the General would not be a good one.

On the other hand, his first impression on her was everything Aeris would have expected, and more. Normally, one's flaws were disguised by distance, and once close it was apparent: the slightly stooped back, the wrinkles, and the unease. Sephiroth simply had no flaws at all. It wasn't fair. His clothes were masterfully tailored and of the highest quality, and he wore the black leather with an natural elegance that Aeris couldn't match on her best day. The General's waist-length hair was pale in the failing light of the slums, not gray or white, with nothing of the feeble luster of the elderly. Instead, it was brilliant, chromatic silver, illustrious and magnificent. Sephiroth's perfection just denied any chance of definition. She could use only the weakest comparisons; hair like a river of silver, eyes like burning emeralds, skin as pale as the most exquisite china. He set a standard that would never be met, a godly being of limitless beauty, but his manner spoke of an underlying wariness more dangerous than anything Aeris had ever seen before. It was that last that stopped her from falling into his arms, and the consequences be damned. She had heard the stories, along with every girl in Midgar and possibly on the Continent, from those women who had been lucky to share the General's bed for a long, sleepless night. Her heart sped up merely at the recollection of the details, faint spots of color appearing on her face.

His mouth opened abruptly, and his voice was harsh and rough, shattering whatever illusions Aeris might have been harboring. "What?" _Of course_, Aeris thought with a twinge bordering on panic; she was interrupting his business. And that wasn't good for her health, if the rumors were even halfway true. He certainly _looked_ to be in a killing mood, with his pale, drawn lips tight with disapproval and slightly raised in a smirk, brow furrowed and hands clenched in fists. Aeris had no doubt that he could quite literally pick her up and snap her in two if he wished. She decided to not let her eyes or mind dwell on the Masamune, held loosely at the General's side, at all – The very thought of what _it_ could do to her ... as if Sephiroth knew what she was thinking of, the corners of his mouth raised slightly upwards for a mere second before settling back into that neutral line. Repressing a slight gulp at the mental imagery of him laughing wildly as he cut her to pieces and shaking with mirth as the blood flew – she had heard _those_ stories as well, of course – she urged her thoughts to steady. Her mind seemed to want to spite her tonight; the next words came without thought.

"Would you like to buy a flower?" Even as she heard herself say it, that little voice in her rose up again and began berating her in a laughing, scornful tone. _Oh, good job, Aeris. You just asked the most dangerous man in the world if he wanted to buy a _flower_, of all things! Do you really have yourself a death wish? _She cringed inside. Well, it _was_ late, and she _was_ tired, and that line was quite possibly what she had said most often in her life. Naturally, she told the voice, it was a perfectly normal thing for her to say. _You're crazy, Aeris. Always was, always will be. _The voice laughed at her. She didn't quite have the heart to tell it to leave her alone, and it wouldn't, most of the time, even if she did ask.

Instead of laughing or just walking off – or, as Aeris almost irrationally feared he would, readying his sword – the General stared at her. Quite possibly he just wasn't accustomed to hearing those words, but Aeris quickly became uncomfortable as his gaze lingered and swept her figure. It had been one of the first lessons of her adolescence, given to her quite forcefully by Elmyra, who had insisted on "educating" her before she could begin her present career. _When a man is staring at you, be on guard. If a man who was staring at you moves towards you, run._ But no, that wasn't it, really. The Mako-green eyes still burned with all of their previous ferocity, but it wasn't the light of a hunter examining prey; _that_ was something she had seen before, in eyes drunken or not, and she knew what to look out for. In this case, though, they seemed to be scouring her soul, searching for answers. Still, it made her uncomfortable, and just as she planned to give it up and head home, he nodded as if comprehending some great secret and spoke again.

This time, it was a different voice, softer, smoother, and darker. "How much for a flower, Miss?" The voice, almost a caress, unnerved her. It seemed to belong to a different person. The earlier gruffness was erased completely, and Aeris didn't know whether to be glad or afraid. After all, Sephiroth was rumored to kill in total coldness, and indeed his voice sounded like the sound of a blade sharpening itself on an oilstone. The voice in her head picked up again. _How long before he goes for the throat? How long dare you wait?_ Aeris mentally ignored it, replying in a slightly shaken tone that the price was one Gil per flower, but that buying a dozen came with a discount. Again, it was more by rote than anything else; her mind still wasn't working fully.

Surprisingly, he shook his head slightly and sighed before speaking again. "Do not be afraid of me. I will not kill you." The accuracy at which he had discerned her thoughts amazed her. But then, he was supposedly a master of manipulations and diplomacy, and both required the ability to see into another's thoughts. "Flowers are such rare things in Midgar ... anything of beauty is, in this place." He nodded to himself again; Aeris wondered with slight amusement if he spoke to another in his mind, as well. "I'll pay you twelve hundred Gil for the thirty of them." A passerby, gaunt and pale with eyes too wide, turned to stare in surprise and tripped in the process, landing in the soft, filthy mud. Aeris' heart went out to the poor soul, but she too was shocked by the offer, rooted to the spot as her mind churned.

_It's a joke. You know it is. The Great General Sephiroth, toying with a girl from the slums._ Aeris told the voice to shut up and leave her alone. Even as she did so, her resolve cracked, and the voice laughed at her in derision. It probably was a joke. It had to be. "I'm not a beggar, sir. You don't need to pity me." And why in the world had she said _that_? Declining funds of all things ... the pragmatic side of her sighed. Subconsciously, she had already calculated how long that would last the Elmyra and her, with just a tiny bit of luxury thrown in for her. After all, she deserved – nothing, her morals chimed in. She wouldn't act as a beggar; she was a businesswoman. Pragmatism remarked again in a dry tone that none of this was putting food on the table, and morality asked if she would rather be working in Wall Market. Pragmatism coughed and reminded her to just take the money and run, and stop changing the subject. And to top it all off, that little voice in the back of her head told her wryly, _you'd be a terrible prostitute._

Overall, the organism that was named Aeris Gainsborough sighed. She wasn't quite sure who she was, sometimes; more and more frequently, her thoughts would jumble together and conflict. She had given them names based on their views and characters and allowed them to guide her, not knowing that any psychiatrist would have been frowning in worry at her actions. She didn't fret at all, though; her lack of real friends made the voices her only companions, and she didn't mind them too much except for occasional outbursts like this. Another voice, not her own and not inside her head, brought her back to reality.

"This is not pity. This is respect, and it would do you a world of good to acknowledge the differences between the two before one or the other kills you." Though Sephiroth's voice was slightly mocking, he took out six crisp bills from a wallet of black leather edged in silver, putting them into her palm and closing her trembling fingers over them. That done, he spoke again in a stern tone that demanded obedience, one that seemed more suitable for giving military commands. "Head back to your house. The slums are dangerous at night." As if she didn't know that. She had grown up here, after all, and this particular route, she knew from long experience, was fairly safe.

Nodding slightly, she wrapped the flowers and passed them to him, at which time he muttered indiscernibly under his breath, something about "jumping" and "propriety". He took them, though, and shook her hand. "Good doing business with you, Miss." Barely waiting for her acknowledgement, he turned abruptly and strode away, black coat flaring out behind him and silver hair briefly uplifted. The patch of colors, red and blue and yellow, just visible over his shoulder, seemed incongruous in that bleak scene of black and white. The flower girl sighed softly, a part of her wanting to follow him. He hadn't even asked her name.

Tucking the currency he had given her into the lining of her dress, lined and worn with age, she began trudging wearily back towards her house, forcing herself away from the direction Sephiroth was heading. Tired as she was, with her mind still pre-occupied with the happenings of a few minutes before, Aeris didn't at all notice the three men who had lurked in the shadows, remaining silent throughout the encounter. As soon as the unlikely buyer and seller were beyond sight of one another, they nodded to one another and began walking in the direction that the girl had taken. The three were experienced thieves, and they usually didn't trouble women, but twelve hundred Gil from a soft target was just too much to pass up.

* * *

The auxiliary support plate pillars were crude things, simple columns of reinforced concrete. And it was this that held up billions of Gil in property and training. It was such a shame that so much relied on so little, really, and Sephiroth had indeed been less than pleased with the behavior of the guards, who had been lazing around in their night office instead of patrolling the grounds. Any amateur could have climbed right over the fence – not even electric or lined with razors – courtesy of a stack of steel girders that ought to have been cleared away. After that, it was as simple as making the short walk to the base of the pillar and planting a reasonably light amount of rough explosive. Anyone with a lighter, freezer coolant, and fertilizer could quite easily annihilate an eighth of the greatest city in the world. It sometimes angered the General that one insane, dedicated amateur could wreak as much, if not more damage than a finely trained, equipped and led military organization.

The maintenance contractor representative had been waiting at the base of the pillar, tired from a long day but smart enough not to raise a comment on the bouquet of flowers the General had brought in with him. A single look on her part had prompted such an icy glare from those glowing green eyes that the normally talkative woman held her silence throughout the entire climb up to the control module. The actual task was simple, and Sephiroth's eyes and hands worked completely independently of his mind, which chose to dwell instead on the more interesting of events of the evening.

The girl had been troubling, indeed. Her outside appearance was hardly unremarkable, with a sense of innocence that seemed so out of place in the miasma of distrust of the slums, but Sephiroth cared little for physical beauty. Her mind, on the other hand, was simply incomprehensible to the General. That was what worried him. From a young age, he found that he could mentally reach in and absorb whatever information he needed, to be used as necessary. It certainly made a much more welcome alternative to interrogations, which took too long to hold, and clean up for afterwards. The girl had been different. Before her, only those who knew something of what to expect from his seeking could muster something similar to a defense, weak even so, against incursion, but getting into her mind was as difficult as performing battlefield surgery with his Masamune and a sledgehammer. He _had_ done it before, for a senior lieutenant during an ambush on the beaches of Wutai, but it had not been easy, and he would not relish doing so again.

Then, as soon as he examined the mind laid before him, he had realized that she could not possibly be human, for all of the physical clues to suggest otherwise. Instead of a single, neat repository for information and another apparatus that controlled emotion like most functional adults, hers had had a thousand rivers all coursing amongst each other, each carrying a different line of thought, but all remaining pure and distinct as they flowed through one another. Getting information out of those rivers had been all but impossible, as each flickered endlessly with every heartbeat. It was as if millions of individual thought processes resided in her mind, and yet her outside demeanor had been as calm and collected as any civilian he had ever seen. Had he been subjected to all the contradiction, all of the swirling eddies of rationality and irrationality, he would have gone insane in an instant. It was obvious that only a mind far beyond human could process such thought, and that any such would be immensely powerful, perhaps almost as powerful as he himself.

No, despite her conclusions to the contrary, she didn't deserve pity. Sephiroth made his mind up on the matter. As much as he hated it, he admitted that she deserved to be watched carefully and respected. At least, he consoled himself bitterly; the girl did not understand yet the full extent of her capabilities. For all of his wading through the chaotic streams of her mind, he had recovered only one emotion, for it had been echoed in every single one of the rivers. As a whole, she was uneasy, distraught. Sephiroth wondered why.

He never once considered examining the state of his own mind.

* * *

(A/N: Well, I hope I did a fairly decent job presenting that as I wanted to. I know it was a bit slow in starting, but I needed to get some of the background in place; a foundation, if you will. Things will start speeding up in the next chapter.

If it isn't obvious enough, this takes place six years before the game starts; Wutai has just been defeated; canon seems kind of unsure when exactly that was. The pivotal difference in this from the canon should make for some interesting happenings. If you haven't quite gotten it yet, it'll be reinforced in the next few pages.

Please forgive me if my characterization isn't very good; the last time I played the game was over two years ago, and watching AC didn't really give me the necessary insight. Give me some time, and I'll work on it.

Please leave your reviews; I can hardly improve when I don't know where my errors lie.)


	2. A New Day

(A/N: Well, thank you to the two reviewers who so kindly left me something to appreciate. And yes, I know this update was rather fast, but I'm leaving to Yangzhou for a week tomorrow, so I decided to put this up early.

Now, let's speed this up a bit. Time to introduce a few friends of ours...)

Disclaimer: Final Fantasy VII is the property of Square-Enix. Original plots and characters are my own.

**

* * *

Threads of Spiri****t  
A New Day**

The Midgar slums produced virtually no profit economically, but if the denizens of the city ever decided to export anything, alcohol was high on the brief list of available finished products. After all, one could hardly sell misery and despair on the markets, though both were in high supply. In any case, bars and brothels easily boasted the richest privately owned establishments under the Plate, but even they had to close sometime in the hazy time composed of late night and early morning.

"Alright, you two. It's long past closing hours. You have to go – now!" The manager, a middle-aged man dressed in a well-tailored brown coat, normally wouldn't have risked shouting at these two patrons in particular, but he was getting tired of their drunken antics, and he had to open in – he checked his watch – eight hours. Muttering a prayer under his breath, he wondered tiredly if he could risky bodily throwing them out. Probably not, he decided, if he wanted to live longer than the time it took them to get over their hangovers in the morning.

The two men, one laughing uproariously and the other simply sitting there with a thin smile, didn't notice him, which was hardly surprising in their present state. The first, with vibrant red hair and a dark blue suit stained with unidentifiable blotches, spoke on in a slurred, joking voice to his dark-haired companion. "And so, I says to him, 'Rude, if you don't get your head out of my lap right this second, why, I swear –" He stopped abruptly, though, as his seemingly more serious drinking companion cut him off with a raised, gloved hand, easing himself slowly off of the cushioned barstool. "I think that's enough, Reno. You have an on-duty day tomorrow, don't you?"

Zack shook his head for the seventeenth time this year and wondered why he persisted in doing this every week. Something about the Mako that he had been exposed to during SOLDIER training had prevented him from suffering any of the usual effects of alcohol, but his friend had begged him to come along the first time five months ago, and he had subsequently been dragged out every Sunday thereafter to watch his friend drown himself in alcohol. He could hardly blame the twenty-one-year-old Turk, what with the nature of his assignments, but he determinedly told himself that he would stop him the next time he asked. The sentiment was weak-hearted after stating it seventeen times before. Zack sighed at some of the unchangeable things in the world.

Reno was still muttering something about wanting to stay, something about killing the dreams, but Zack took him firmly by the upper arm and, smiling apologetically to the manager, led him to the door. Once he reached it, he looked back at the man, who was frowning under his mustache, and decided to toss him another fifty-Gil note. It wasn't as if Zack needed it, with the salary of a SOLDIER First-Class, and the man had truly done well to put up with the two of them. Before, they hadn't dared go back to the same bar any more than once. "Sorry about that, sir. Get some rest, alright?" Flashing the manager a brief trademark smile, Zack dragged the stumbling Reno outside, where he promptly sank to his knees and threw up on the establishment's sign. Zack winced; they wouldn't be coming back to this one, either.

Cursing himself for letting his friend act so irresponsibly, the swordsman half-led, half-dragged the still-muttering Turk towards one of the special elevators used by high-ranking Shinra employees. The muggy air and the stagnant smell of rust and decay didn't do much for his spirits, and Zack almost thought of using Aero to clear a bubble of clean air around him, but then he decided that it wouldn't do much good for long in the dank environs of the slums. Sighing and coughing subsequently, he told himself more resolutely that this was not happening again. He would talk to Tseng about it in the morning, as a matter of professional opinion, of course. Losing a Turk to alcoholism would hardly help their image, though, knowing the Director of the Turks, he would claim that a person named Reno Jahar would simply never have existed, if it came down to that.

That was when he felt a familiar sensation; a half-tingling in the back of his neck that he knew meant trouble was near. It was in him from birth and had saved his skin in a number of situations, and the Mako showering simply augmented what SOLDIER training drove deeper. Eyes scanning the rooftops and alleyways, he slowly moved his right hand towards the sword hilt rising behind his shoulder. Then, he heard the scream, a slow, agonizing sound with no words attributed in it. There was a brief period of shock that affected anyone after hearing such a sound, but then Zack's extensive training kicked in. Reno appeared not to notice, and Zack let the man drop to the ground. It had been a female scream, and added to the fact that it was late at night in the slums, Zack quickly made the connections, pulse quickening in anger. Sure, he liked the girls and loved chasing them, but rape was dishonorable, and he regarded those who committed it as the lowest of criminals. His ears told him that it had originated from his right, and he hurried that way, unlimbering his sword from his back.

Another scream, this one more desperate, sounding like "No!" Zack quickened his pace, running towards where he had heard it originate. Growling deep in his throat, he rushed forth onto the scene, Buster Sword held at the ready. In a dark, unlit alley, two roughly dressed men were assaulting a young woman, a third man lying on the ground, clutching his head. The plain wooden staff that lay at Zack's feet at the alley entrance, where it had probably been thrown after being wrested from the girl's grasp, explained that. Even as Zack moved fluidly, as he had been trained, his eyes analyzed the situation. One of the men had grabbed the girl's coat from behind her, trapping her arms and bringing her to her knees, while the other darted in to fumble at her dress. Even then, Zack couldn't help but notice how some of the diffuse light from a distant streetlamp made her face glow, and how the red handprint on her left cheek hardly detracted from her beauty. He snarled at himself for the inappropriate thoughts and concentrated his mind on the task at hand.

He opted for a soft "kill"; the girl would have enough bad dreams as it was without him adding to it by showering her in the blood of her assailants, much as he would like to kill them, if he could do so in a detached manner. Drawing on a deep power innate in his mind, one that had been brought to the surface through long hours of training and meditation, he channeled it through one of the glowing green Materia orbs in his blade, weaving the resulting flows around the two men. The low-powered Aero spell reacted exactly as he known it would, seizing the criminals in invisible fists and tossing them to the ground away from the girl. Another flow of Air knocked them soundly unconscious. After a moment's thought, he repeated that to the third, who had shown some signs of recovery, attempting to rise.

After making sure that the three would make no more trouble for a few hours yet, he replaced his sword to its normal carrying position and turned back to face the girl, who was trembling still in fear. As his brown eyes met hers, a beautiful green, she smiled at him gratefully, beatifically lighting up her face. Zack resisted the sudden urge to kiss her; _that_ would hardly do, now, and he shouted at himself mentally for thinking like a selfish fool. Instead, he contented himself with an inward feeling of satisfaction before asking her in a grave tone. "Are you all right?" He didn't really need to ask, per se, but it was compulsory in scenarios like these; his cursory inspection revealed a few scrapes and bruises, but overall she was fairly intact, physically.

She looked at him oddly, almost as if not entirely focused on the here and now. With a small start, she nodded and replied. "Yes, thank you. It's nothing that I can't Heal." The capital was audible, but now it was Zack's turn to look at her strangely. Those who had been showered with Mako developed an affinity with Materia over time, along them to "see" it, and she did not possess any. Just when he was about to offer his Restore orb to her, she seemed to whisper, and a sudden, warm breeze rose about them, filling the air with a scent of roses that easily wiped away the earlier stench that had permeated his nostrils. Zack's mouth gaped; this was absolutely impossible! Then, he realized that the aches in his bones, pressures and tenseness he had not even known were there, were gone, and he felt almost lightheaded in comfort. Not even Materia healed that well; even Mastered, it left a slight tiredness and aching where wounds had been – better, certainly; a little discomfort was better than the agony of a sword cut or thrust. He noticed belatedly that her wounds were gone, too. She appeared even more radiant, as if pleased with what she had wrought.

Just as he was about to ask, she answered his unspoken question in a light, pleasant tone that spoke of an amateur lying. "I've been able to do that for a few years, now, though I'm not sure how. Whatever works, right?" He nodded at her, understanding that she clearly hiding something and yet knowing not to probe. He was not such a cold soul, and now wasn't the time for unnecessary questions. "So, is your house nearby, Miss...?" Zack thought the least he could do was finding out her name. He decided that he liked the girl. _Big surprise_, his conscience grumbled. She giggled slightly, as if understanding his thoughts, and pointed to a large, well-maintained house in the old style, complete with a flower garden off to the side. Zack found it so outrageously out-of-place, though he suspected that it would give an awe-inspiring sense of peace if one were to lounge in it.

The girl's voice broke him out of his reverie. "My name is Aeris Gainsborough. You can call me Aeris, though." A pretty name meant for a pretty girl. Zack decided that he could definitely see this going somewhere in the near future. "My name's Zachary White. Everyone calls me Zack, though. It's late, and your parents will already be worried sick. You should be getting back home, now." She nodded solemnly, turning to leave. Zack watched her until she came to the threshold, waving once to her before heading back to where Reno was probably still lying there in a drunken haze, if not asleep. Either way, he didn't exactly relish the thought of dragging the man all the way back to their apartments on the Plate; Zack wasn't weak by any means, but the Turk was hardly light. Still, he told himself resolutely that it was the least he could do, having let his friend get as drunk as he had. Even with the whimpering redhead over his shoulder, Zack couldn't help but smile at the result of the night's events. He was in between girlfriends at the moment, and he knew deep in his heart that he had taken to Aeris already. And so, even with a snoring weight perched precariously on him, he still managed to walk with a bounce in his step.

Aeris, hands shaking from fatigue so deep that her wind hadn't alleviated it, fumbled the key for a good minute before she finally managed to unlock the door and walked, or staggered, she thought, through the threshold. To her surprise, the light in the kitchen was on, and she shied her eyes briefly. The sight before her incited a sharp, painful wince. Standing in the middle of the room was a grim-looking Elmyra, arms crossed beneath her breasts in the manner of disapproving women all over the world. The clock ticked ominously in the background, though why she would notice it now, Aeris had no idea. Before she could say anything, her foster mother began in a dangerously calm tone. "Hello, dear." Aeris shuddered; it was the same tone she had used to tell her that she wasn't really Elmyra's daughter. It did not bode well. Aeris slumped her shoulders and prepared for the inevitable outburst.

If her mother's blue eyes had been sharp before, now they were positively blazing. "You have quite some explaining to do, Aeris. For starters, why are you home two hours late?" To Aeris, it seemed obvious that this was going to take a while, so she sank into one of the chairs by the table and replied wearily. "I got ... held up. Twice." She didn't really consider meeting Sephiroth as being "held up", but it had taken some time, and in the present mood Elmyra was in ... Apparently, it was the wrong answer. "Aeris, you were never a good liar." The voice in her head agreed with the scornful words, but Aeris was shocked. How did her mother possibly know about her meeting Sephiroth? As if her mother had sensed her thoughts, she added with a snort. "The signs are obvious. You might as well tell the truth. I suppose I can understand." Now, her eyes just looked sad, which confused Aeris all the more. _Tell the truth,_ the voice urged her. For once, she agreed. Then it continued. _Watch how she tears it apart._

"You see, on the way back from the train station ..." She was interrupted by her mother's sigh. With a weary voice, Elmyra prodded at her daughter. "Go on, Aeris ..." Aeris replied quickly, eager to get this over with and go to sleep. "I ... met Sephiroth. We ... talked ..." From the look on her mother's face, Aeris decided she would be better off not mentioning the flowers. Elmyra nodded solemnly, though Aeris thought her lips had twitched, just for a moment there. Probably her imagination, she concluded. The voice in her head ranted about trust and betrayal, but she forced it to silence. Elmyra's voice stirred her, though, as Aeris willed the internal nuances to leave her alone. "And the second time?" Aeris was split between finding her mother's protectiveness of her comical or irritating. This was one of the latter times; she had another long day waiting tomorrow – today? – and she wanted to sleep, however troubled her dreams normally were, with a never-ceasing flow of screams and the feeling of intense agony that left her tossing and turning. However, she knew that her mother would be relentless if she begged off, and it would be better to get this done with, quickly. "The second time was when some thieves tried to rob me. I got away from them, though."

Elmyra threw back her blond head and laughed sardonically. "Girl, you're a terrible liar. Look, I'm not so dull-witted or dreary-eyed to see the obvious." Aeris wondered what she was talking about. She _had_ told the truth, after all, despite all the reasons not to. She opened her mouth to protest, but her foster mother spoke first, in a rough voice. Strangely, she seemed on the brink of tears. "I'm sad that you don't trust me, Aeris ... but I can't let you deceive me like this." She raised a finger threateningly. "Your coat's ripped and hanging wrong, the top two buttons of your dress are undone, and your hair is unbraided." To say that Aeris was confused was a vast understatement. Where in the world was Elmyra going with this? Her mother had never cared too much about her appearance, before. As her tired mind tried to puzzle out her mother's intent, Elmyra strode over to her seat, roughly squeezing at Aeris' shoulder and staring into her face. When she continued, her voice was harder, as if trying not to bend from sadness. "Your muscles are limp, there's a shine in your eye, and your lips never had so much color at this time of day." Now, Aeris was completely bewildered. Why in the world was Elmyra pointing out the after-effects of her healing? Would she have been better off walking in with bruises and scrapes covering her? Her inner voice muttered indistinctly but belligerently, but she lacked the concentration to mute it again. Before her, her mother's eyes widened in shock, and she plunged a hand down the bodice of Aeris' dress, pulling out the currency that Sephiroth had given her, earlier. With a moan, Elmyra collapsed in a chair, sobbing. "Aeris ... oh, dear, I'm so sorry about grumbling about ... money, but you didn't need to do_ ... that_ ..."

What in the Light was her mother talking about? Aeris had no idea, and so stumbled blindly in her reply. "I ... I didn't steal it ... mother ..." her voice died away as Elmyra laughed again, bitterly this time. "Oh, no, you didn't steal it, dear ... you provided a _good_, and you were paid for it, weren't you?" Aeris was long past confused, long past dumbfounded. Was her mother insane? She had been selling flowers for four years now! Voice angry, she bit off. "Look, Mother, I've been doing this for years now, and _now_ you decide to complain?" This was ridiculous. She wanted to sleep, and her mother was delaying her with these pointless questions, the Light burn her! "Just because Sephiroth decided to pay me extra isn't a reason for you to get all upset like this!" Elmyra's mouth dropped, voice faint. "... Sephiroth?" Aeris fumed. This was getting nowhere. She decided to raise her voice. "Yes, Sephiroth! I said that the first time, didn't I? It's not like I _wanted_ him to pay me so much! And it's not like he was trying to hurt me, or anything; he was kind, almost! He's nothing like what the media and the rumors say!" Aeris glared at her mother. This was nonsense! Absolute nonsense!

Her mother turned to face her, eyes glittering with anger. When she spoke, her voice was under control again, tightly bottled rage under a façade of calmness. "You can go back to him, then! If he _enjoyed_ it so much, I wouldn't be surprised if he kept you on permanently. Aeris, if that's what you want ..." Her voice broke down into tears. "Oh, dear, I never would have thought ... my little girl, _prostituting_ herself for _years_. Where did I go wrong ... oh, Light, where did I go wrong?" Aeris was aghast. _That_ was what she had been thinking? She laughed at the sheer ridiculousness of it, stating in a light voice. "Mother, you have it all wrong!"

Wrong answer. Again. Blue eyes burning with fury, Elmyra raged at her. "Don't you lie to me now, girl! You admitted it yourself!" Against Aeris' sputtering protests, Elmyra seized her by the arm and pushed her towards the door. "Get out, get out! I don't want to see you here ever again! Oh, how I thought I could make you different! I hoped that you would live a _life_, not become just another damned whore from the damned slums! I taught you, protected you, prayed for you ... and you dare do this, burn you! GET OUT!" With a final, forceful thrust, Elmyra projected her former daughter from the house. Aeris landed on her face, sobbing quietly into the mud at the realization of just what was happening. Standing above her, Elmyra snarled in tones of infinite contempt. "You're no daughter of mine." Picking up the bills from where they had been lying on the tiled floor of the house, Elmyra tossed the notes to the figure, lying motionless on her doorstep. "Take your damned money. I never want to see any sign of you in this house again!" With that, she slammed the door, locking it firmly behind her.

For a time, the only thing Aeris could do was cry piteously, and her first considered thought wasn't much better. _Light, this can't be happening to me. _Aeris' attempts at denial only brought a fresh onset of tears as the voice inside her mocked her with glee. _You knew you should have listened to me. You knew approaching Sephiroth would only bring you harm._ That smugness, that arrogance, enraged her, giving her the will to act. Rising slowly, she shouted mentally. _WHO ARE YOU?_ The voice just laughed, and Aeris chided herself. She had more important things to be doing than ranting at something that was just a figment of her imagination. She took a moment to consider her options, and the list was fairly grim. It wasn't fair! Her mother had completely misunderstood her at every turn!

Light, but she was tired. Weeping, she noted with something barely approaching wryness, was exhausting. Eventually, she decided that sleeping in the mud in front of her house – former house; and oh, how the thought of that hurt – was probably a bad idea, and she began to drag herself towards the flower garden. The pragmatic part reminded her gently to pick up the two-hundred-Gil notes, while the superstitious segment frowned and proclaimed them as obviously bad luck. But then, Aeris thought, getting hit by a falling piano sometime in the vague future was probably better than starving to death in a week. Sighing softly and kneeling, she picked up the dirty bills, tucking them back into the lining of her dress. That, she noted sadly, was completely unsalvageable from lying in the mud for a good twenty minutes, along with her coat and boots. Rubbing her grimy hand against her face, which turned out to be worse, she wondered if the day held any more snares and pits ahead of her. What she didn't consider, as she slowly eased herself against the flowerbeds that she had cultivated, was that the new day had barely begun.

* * *

Beep>"Nuclear Launch Detected," the cool, female voice stated, devoid of emotion. Reno rolled over on his bed, hand fumbling for his cell phone as he cursed. The Turk was a light sleeper, but times like these he wished he could just fall back asleep on his wonderfully comfortable bed. His mouth tasted like he'd been gargling a 9-volt battery, and he felt like there was a full brigade's worth of Wutain battle-drummers pounding away in his head. That told him it was Monday. Only on a Monday did he feel this terrible. At least, he consoled himself, still searching for his phone, the alcohol blocked out the dreams. It was almost worth it. 

Beep>"Nuclear Launch Detected." Reno wasn't quite sure how he had gotten himself that ringtone, but it worked, and he hadn't found the time to change it. At last spotting it on the table and activating it, he tried to disguise his hung over state. "'Ello, this is Reno of the Turks. Need something destroyed?" Over the line, the Turks' collective secretary didn't laugh. She had had years to get used to how the redhead answered the phone, which wasn't the case with civilians and some of the lower-ranked personnel. Instead, she merely remarked dryly, "Commander White left some hangover potion for you in the kitchen." As Reno silenty thanked his friend, she continued. "Director Tseng told me to inform you to be in his office in thirty minutes. He says he has new mission orders for you."

Finally. A part of him was overjoyed to find out that the black-haired bastard had _finally_ re-assigned him. Reno had asked for it a month ago; he simply couldn't follow a man very well when his fur coat made him sneeze and cough and splutter every few minutes, now could he? The other, larger part was focused on stumbling over to the Turk's shared kitchen to get his potion. As he sat down on the breakfast bar and pulled the plain glass vial of viscous purple fluid over to him glumly – the thing tasted like moldy socks – he noted the other Turk in the room, glancing at him with a combination of compassion and barely-suppressed laughter. Rude, already in his trademark sunglasses even when the sun had barely risen yet, limited his speech to three words. "You should change." Reno was grateful for that, though he didn't see the multiple meanings; he wasn't ready to deal with his friend's chivvying this morning. Then he glanced down at himself and winced. Dirt, dust, wrinkles, alcohol, and vomit just didn't look good on a Turk suit. He downed the acrid-tasting concoction in one gulp and walked back to his room, where he swiftly showered and donned a new navy blue suit and black pants, both tailored of medium quality. Tseng had stopped having the higher quality uniforms sent to him ever since had begun ruining them on a weekly basis.

As he sat back down at the barstool, head already clearing into something resembling a thinking apparatus, he picked up a large plate of buttered toast, scrambled eggs, and bacon; Ms. Alaine, the Turks' secretary and cook, knew that was what he had every Monday. He needed the added energy to face the thought of another five days of grueling, tiring, tortuous work. Beside him, Rude raised an eyebrow behind his shades, but wisely said nothing today about cholesterols and fats. The dark, bald man was almost done with his small bowl of fruits and cereal grains; Reno had no idea how he survived on such a meager fare, but Rude just looked at him with a rare smile on his face whenever he brought it up. Rude smiling was just so disconcerting that he let the subject drop whenever he was faced with it. Instead, the redhead let his eyes wander around the room. It hardly seemed a place where one might find Turks. The walls were painted a soft hue of pastel blue, with gray-streaked white marble surfaces everywhere and a general aura of comfort and relaxation. The large, well-used leather sofa in front of the television seemed to beckon, while a painting of ocean waves against a beach completed the image. Anyone who stumbled in would have no idea that the Turks' apartments lay just behind an unmarked door.

Noting the silence, Rude spoke first on a relatively safe topic. "Congratulations on your new assignment, Reno." Reno flashed a small smile at the man and chuckled lightly. "Hell, anything would be better than chasing after that smuggler with his goddamned cat-fur coat." He just couldn't stand the fine, prickly stuff, blowing three missions on that factor alone. Rude, on the other hand, merely quirked his lips as he replied. "I got a look at the folder. You might want to rethink that sentiment, Reno. It only came down to you because Tseng refused it." Reno whistled appreciatively at that; anything originally given to the Director was really, _really_ important. _Time to raise another pay grade_, he thought with a smile. Then he considered the ramifications of the thought. "Wait, is this the one Tseng's kept for the last ... three years?" Rude nodded, settling back into his customary non-verbal stance. Reno just shook his head and went back to eating. Tseng had never said anything about that assignment, which was odd; the three Turks usually discussed them with one another all the time.

Once he was done with his breakfast, he and Rude took the elevator down from their 5th-floor apartment and began the short walk to the Shinra building. It was a small "village" of apartment towers dedicated to the more higher-ranked Shinra employees, but they were generally the first to leave and last to return on any given business day. Along the way, they discussed the usual things; sports – one-sided, the weather – still dreary and cold, and their present relationships – neither had found a decent girl for anything long-term, but Reno had plenty of stories to tell from all of his brief flings, which Rude seemed to find vaguely amusing. After they signed the registry at the front desk, Reno nodded farewell and took the elevator up to the Director's office, while Rude raised a fist and headed to the employee gym to complete his daily morning workout.

Leaning against the interior wall of the elevator, Reno watched the sun as it rose over the horizon, silhouetting the rooftops of Kalm. It was a pretty sight, so long as you didn't let your eyes drop down to the barren wastelands that surrounded Midgar for a good hundred miles, more in some areas. The redhead wondered if it had always been like that; he vaguely remembered hearing a tale somewhere that these fields had been green, sometime before. It certainly would have made a good children's' tale, except that Reno Jahar hadn't really had much of a childhood. Growing up a bastard son in Sector Four, he had had virtually nothing to call his own. On his sixteenth birthday, his mother had unceremoniously thrown him out of the house in the manner of the slums, and he had walked into Shinra's recruiting station the afternoon afterwards. The war with Wutai had been raging, then, and he thought that he might have been able to rise through the ranks and make a name for himself like Sephiroth had.

Fat chance; he laughed about it sometimes in retrospect. He had barely begun basic training when, during a routine inspection, the Director of the Turks at the time, Kristoph Mendos, had singled him out and had him entered in special lessons immediately – without Reno's input. He had had no choice but to go forward, but Fate chose to be whimsical. The night before his last "test", Kristoph had died of a massive stroke, and the autopsy revealed signs of abnormal growths in parts of the brain responsible for the cognitive functions, possible root causes of insanity. Reno was stuck with the knowledge that his being chosen to join the Turks was completely irrational and random, and that he ought to be grateful for the high status, good pay, and access to insider information. That was what the others had told him in not-so-subtle ways, at least.

What he hadn't bargained for was the dreams, the nightmares. Years of operating for the Turks had given him a guilty conscience that weighed down on him like the proverbial mountain, and it just wouldn't go away whatever he tried. At first, it had been manageable, but eventually, he simply couldn't deal with it anymore, which had led to his touring of the bars. Fellow Turks shrugged and said they didn't have to worry about it; Reno cursed their luck and lack of caring. The psychiatrists that Tseng insisted he talk with told him to find a change of profession, and _that_ wouldn't do. Shinra didn't just give away TOP-SECRET information every day, and quitting the Turks was never voluntary. Either you were promoted, or you died in various, spectacularly absurd ways. That particular fact hadn't made it into the propaganda, and sometimes, when he found himself staring at someone who resembled one of his former "objectives", Reno cursed whatever cranial abnormalities had forced Kristoph Mendos to choose _him_ of all people.

The buzzer dinged pleasantly as he reached the 59th floor, where the Turks' offices were. Reno nodded and smiled at the Director's secretary, who returned the smile and told him to go right on in. He found the Wutain staring at the painting on the wall – roses on blue; Reno had never quite figured out why he kept it – a paper of some sort lying on his hardwood desk and a thick manila folder, labeled TOP-SECRET; STATUS: CRITICAL nearby. As soon as Reno entered the threshold, though, the Director's tilted black eyes came to focus on him, giving him a quick once-over to make sure he wasn't attempting to assassinate him, or something like that. For his part, Reno adopted a serious posture, sitting in one of the two hard-backed chairs facing the Director's much larger, far more comfortable seat. Rank had its privileges. "You called for me regarding a re-assignment, Director."

Tseng's speech was clipped and terse, almost as if he had deliberately shunted himself away from the elegantly flowing phrases of the Wutain tongue. "Yes, I did. This next assignment is rather interesting." Abruptly, he opened the folder; rifling through the stack inside, he located an eight-by-ten glossy photograph depicting a girl, perhaps fifteen, dressed chastely in a long, pink dress and a bright, red jacket. She was facing the camera, but that didn't mean she had been aware of it; her eyes, a deep green, were focused elsewhere, her mouth open as if to greet a friend. She carried a wooden staff of the cheap variety in one arm and basket of flowers in the other. Reno's first thought was _Wow. She's cute._ The second was _Wait a second here; _this_ is the person Tseng's been unable to catch for three years!_ Somewhere in between was a nagging feeling that he had seen those eyes before, but he couldn't quite place it.

The Director spoke again before Reno had much more time to contemplate. "Her name is Aeris Gainsborough, and she sells flowers on the Sector One Plate. She has every day now, for the last four years this October, in fact. Senior Officials," which meant the Department Heads, "believe that she may be an Ancient, the only one alive besides Sephiroth." _That_ was where he had those eyes, Reno realized, though they couldn't have been more different otherwise. One set was tilted and burning, always suspicious, the other round and bright, seeming so innocent. Reno nodded, and Tseng continued. "Professor Hojo," whose name Tseng enunciated in tones of derision, "wants to experiment on her." _And we get to bring her in, so that a madman can have his way with her. Joy._

Reno sighed; this would be one more face to haunt him, and a pretty one at that. Damn. "With all due respect, Director, why can't you handle this yourself?" Tseng knew and respected Reno's weaknesses, and the redhead didn't think the Director would spite him deliberately in this way. Tseng's face clenched but almost softened for a bare instant. "I have ... personal ties ... involving her." Reno could not help laughing at loud at that, drawing a pained glance from the Director. "Haha, Director! Are you meaning to tell me you have a _crush_ on the girl?" Tseng muttered under his breath, shooting a look at his subordinate. "Don't think the worst at all times. For your information, Reno, we grew up together for a time." His face, though, had barely reddened, though, but Reno didn't press him further. To add to that, Tseng continued in a dry tone. "Besides, I could always have you keep chasing after the smuggler." Then, he sighed; it was something Reno was not accustomed to. "Look, I know you don't enjoy this any more than I do, but this should be a quick, easy pickup. Just bring her in from the street and take her to me. I'll deal with the ... Professor." Reno nodded his acceptance, though he had the feeling Tseng had been about to say something else. Also, this _would_ be an easy assignment; he should have no time to develop any emotions regarding her, and thus he would not feel such a large obligation to her.

The problem, he knew, was that he already had. Muttering under his breath, he picked up the file and left to pick up his electromagnetic rod in the Weapons Room. Behind him, the Director sighed again and decided the most he could do was speak to Hojo and attempt to persuade him to curb his ... enthusiasm, distasteful and boundless as it was. He forced his mind to compartmentalize the issue, like so many others, and focused once more on the report lying before him.

* * *

It was all such a waste of time. There were no more enemies to fight, at least not army-to-army, but here he still was, teaching deployments and strategy to a class of aspiring officers in a classroom on the lower floors of the Shinra building. Some time or other he almost felt like cornering each in turn and asking him whom exactly they thought they were training to lead armies against. Sephiroth smirked, pointing once more to the graph he had drawn on the projector screen. "Observe." He gave them five seconds to do so. If they couldn't see that the Red Force had 3:1 numerical advantage and control of a small hill with a hundred feet of uncovered ground before the only assailable route, then they didn't deserve to be here. Blue Force had low supplies, fewer men, and a supposedly inferior tactical position on plains with no cover. Morale was not high compared to Red Force, but not low. "What would an intelligent commander of Blue Force do?" He gave them an additional five seconds to consider the question. When no one of the class of sixteen volunteered, as usual, he jabbed a gloved finger randomly into their number. "You! What is your answer?" He hoped to the gods that it wouldn't be _too_

embarrassing.

Without hesitating, the officer-in-training replied. If there was one thing he had ground out of them, it was delay. He would not tolerate it, lack of battles or not. Men died and battles were lost for failing to act when the time was right. "General, Blue Force should consolidate into a defensive position along the ridge to the south while waiting for reinforcements and heavy weapons to breach Red Force defensive positions on the river."

Sephiroth waited until it was clear that that was all the man had to say, short and un-detailed as it was. Then he opened his mouth and replied in the terse, cutting tone he used for lessons. "That is a choice for the weak and cowardly. I would expect a substandard commander to allow his or her initiative to wallow and die in such a pitiful manner. A general greater than any of you once said, 'Attack on ground where your enemy believes you will not, from an unexpected direction at an unexpected time. Defend where the enemy believes you are not, and when he believes you will run. Surprise is the key to victory, and speed is the key to surprise. For the soldier, speed is life.' Those words are true." He gave them a little time to let them copy it down. Then he pointed again. "You. What would Blue Force do?" the officer replied after examining the maps for a brief second longer, not as sure as the first. "General, Blue Force should ... attack the Red Force river garrisons?" A few of the students glanced at him, some curious, some struggling to contain laughter.

Sephiroth wanted to grab him and throw him out of the window, but the idiot likely wouldn't survive the impact. The fool ... normally, he would continue until someone finally got the best answer –his opinion, of course, but his opinion had won the battles and written the texts, and that was what counted to Shinra. Now, he was just far too irritated, and with the end of the lesson time approaching, he decided to just give them the answer and get back to his apartments and rest. "Incorrect. That would be suicidal. Instead, Blue Force should advance forward under cover of darkness to this ridge, here," he pointed at another terrain feature, far to the north of the first. "Then, his defensive lines should focus southward, and no contact to the north should be attempted. Reinforcements would, as Mahnricht said, bombard the garrison and force them into an attack, and which time the original party would be in a fine position to strike from the flanks and rear." One officer nodded, adding a few lines to his notes. One. Sephiroth groaned at the thought of teaching these buffoons for the next few years. He had hardly enjoyed prosecuting the war, but it was a welcome relief to get away from the incompetents at Shinra, cadets, executives, and everyone in between. They were all beneath him, but he could do nothing, yet. It was too risky, and he admitted while that he _was_ an Ancient, he was not invincible, no matter what the rumors said.

The foul mood persisted until he returned to his personal apartments on the Sector Five Plate. The maintenance contractor had pronounced the pillar perfectly sound, which relieved Sephiroth immensely. He hated shopping, and that especially applied towards residences. He shared the building with a few of the other SOLDIER First-Class, and he found their presence bearable, at least. At least, he thought with a smirk, he didn't have to rub shoulders with some whiny Shinra employees every morning and evening. Taking the elevator up to the top floor, he joined one of his few friends, Zack White, taking the time to nod to him once before holding down the "Close Door" button. Sephiroth knew Zack lived on the second floor. "Why are you going up?" Zack laughed in his loud, raucous manner, gesturing at the General. "To visit you, of course! You hardly get enough company as it is." Sephiroth frowned in slight disapproval. The man, though competent enough, had the habit of sticking near him at the worst of times. Right now, he just wanted to pour some good, ice-cold lemonade and relax his headache away. Teaching – no, attempting to teach idiots – inevitably left his temples pounding.

But then, short of placing the Masamune against his throat, Zack never took no for an answer. His loyalty, if it could be called that, and his stubbornness were what had instilled his respect in the black-haired man in the first place, along with his sharp eye for terrain and his skill with his blade, impractical as he saw it to be. "Very well. We will talk." The elevator door slid open noiselessly, revealing a corridor of ivory tile leading to a single heartwood door engraved with gold. Both men had traveled it enough times to not gawk at the obvious and unnecessary luxury. Sephiroth slid his ID card into the holder, which beeped and pronounced him able to enter. Pushing the heavy door unceremoniously, he stepped into his eight-room suite, of which he only really used two rooms. Leading in from the threshold was the living room, where he had placed the flowers that he had bought yesterday from that girl in a glass vase on the coffee table. A dining room – he rarely ate here; sitting room – he didn't entertain guests formally, either; bedroom – which he admitted was only used as a library, as he did not need to sleep; bathroom – necessary as always; game room – converted into another library; kitchen – which he saw no point in using; and a large veranda completed his quarters. Generally, he remained in his converted libraries whenever he was here, reading or sleeping. Sometimes, though, he went outside to the veranda and gazed at the stars, marveling in their elegance and mystery.

The entire place was decorated in austere black and white, with sharp, sudden corners and stark contrasts. The few spots of color from the flowers in their vase seemed quite incongruous in the scene. Zack exclaimed on seeing the bouquet. "Hey, you finally got some color in this place! Doesn't it feel so much better with them?" He moved in closer to sniff at them. "Whoa, these are real, too! Who sent you these? I know you don't list your mailing address." Sephiroth scowled at the thought. A daily avalanche of correspondence would bury him if they ever figured out that he didn't live at the Shinra building like the Department Heads. Really, it wasn't as if he liked the place. "As to your first question, no, it has hardly changed my meager opinion of this place. And as to the second, no one sent them to me. I bought them myself." Zack stared at him. "You _bought things_? I mean, from _her_?" The General shrugged. With anyone else, he would berate them for being so vague, but Zack was a friend, and a rare one at that. "Considering that the seller was a female, yes, from 'her'."

Zack grinned widely at his General. Added to his monstrous head of hair, it made him look like some giant, demented porcupine. "Her name's Aeris. I've been asking around the HQ, and _everyone_ seems to know about her. Though Hojo gave me the strangest look when I asked ... say, what did you think of her?" Sephiroth almost laughed out loud at that. He could hardly tell Zack about the cautious respect-between-equals he had decided on cultivating towards her; it would most assuredly get out to the media somehow, and Sephiroth would never have a moment to himself again. "I thought nothing of her. I bought the flowers, paid her, and moved on." Which led to the obvious question, one that Zack quickly voiced. "But _why_ did you buy flowers? I mean, seriously, Sephiroth and _flowers_? The media'd have a field day with that story! 'Super-Macho Shinra General Weak Against Flowers.'" Zack laughed again, imagining the look on his General's face if he ever saw _that_ headline.

Sephiroth hardened his voice; what had before been a cold river was now simply frozen-over ice. "It was a whim; a foolish fancy. I do not know why I bothered." With that, he channeled the rage and frustration of the afternoon's lessons through his Materia, using powerful flows of Aero to lift the flowers, vase and all, and crush them into an infinitely small mass, burning it with a brief burst of intense Fire. So strong were his innate magical capabilities that not even a single ash remained from the combustion, which left a brief sensation of heat that dissipated with the spell. "You know I do not care for such things. So easily broken, so easily destroyed. Only the strongest, the hardest can live in this world."

* * *

It would be better to get this over with quickly, the cadet thought, shuddering in distaste as he faced the Mako tank, empty and forbidding, for the first time. The air was slightly chilled to keep the instruments safe, and the cadet couldn't suppress a shiver as he quickly stripped of the SOLDIER-in-training uniform, aware and beyond caring of the officer's eyes that paused for an almost insulting direct stare before returning to his notes. 

The cadet stepped into the tank, oblong and large enough for a tall man to stand in it comfortably with feet to spare, trying to repress thoughts of the stories the various other cadets had told the newest crop about their first "shower". Closing the transparent panel that served as a door, he tapped the thick polymer twice, signaling that he was ready. The officer, with an almost bored expression – he saw the did the same hundreds of times per day, day after day for years, now – depressed a switch to lock the tank door, flipped a cover with a red "WARNING" stamped on it, and pressed down the button below it. The cadet, who had been watching, murmured a few quiet words and braced himself.

Above him, a small panel opened and a nozzle emerged. That was all the warning the cadet had before a soft spray of fine green liquid, light and airy, descended upon him. As soon as the first whisper of a hair touched him, the cadet screamed, a long protracted sound of agony. Unlike Materia, which was energy that had "fermented" into a form safe for bare skin to handle, raw, untreated Mako was highly dangerous under all but the most careful of conditions. The pain came as a stinging, burning sensation, starting from the point of contact but spreading throughout the cadet's body in a heartbeat, lighting him up in an intense, wracking pain that came in waves timed to the quickened beating of the cadet's heart.

Through pure strength of will and the knowledge that nothing he did could possibly change this for the better, the cadet stood straight and tall, unbending as the light shower continued, as it would for the next minute. The teachers and students had both agreed that with time and prolonged contact, the pain would eventually fade, until it was safe to begin full-body immersions – "baths". Only once the body showed no aversion to that did the final treatments, direct injection into the bloodstream, begin. For now, though, that minute felt like an hour of torture to the cadet, locking his jaw in an attempt to prevent any additional screams from being uttered. Barely ten seconds in, the muscles in his jaw had already formed a hurting, knotting cramp, and the cadet knew he'd have to work at them for quite some time before he could open his mouth at all.

One of the tips his mentor, a First-Class with incredibly chaotic black hair and an easy smile, had been to think of other things; focusing on external memories seemed to attenuate the pains, which no potion or spell could heal. Forcing his mind to operate, the cadet began to think of his childhood, a time of confusion and anger and frustration. He remembered the blames he had placed on him, the shame that had been a part of his daily existence. He remembered the rage he had held in check when the other children had framed him, the sadness when no one seemed to want to talk to him. The cadet growled then, low and deep in the throat, and he willed himself to think of other things. Better things. He sighed and thought of sitting on top of the town well, staring at the stars, finding solace in their isolation, reflecting on the sorry state of his own life. He remembered the promise he had made, and that spurred other thoughts. He _was_ going to show them all, he thought resolutely. He was going to be in SOLDIER, and he was going to excel. He knew it in the depths of his soul. He would go back, and _everyone_ would beg to allow him to forgive him or her, beg to speak with him. He was going to be strong; he was going to be devious; he was going to famous. He knew it.

Abruptly, the spray stopped, and the cadet let out a ragged breath, nostrils flaring as he sucked in air greedily. He hadn't been aware that he had been holding his breath. Around him, the suction apparatus began to remove the Mako gas from the air, and he waited for the process to continue before the officer unlocked the hatch with the same bored expression, and the cadet walked out stiffly; his muscles were tired but knotted at the same time, and he thought with a sigh that it would be hours before he could speak again. Nodding brusquely to the officer, he strode over to his clothes and put them on, feeling the burning sensation still flowing through him jump as his skin came in contact with the fabrics. He staggered out the door, limping slightly, and he attempted to smile reassuringly at the next cadet waiting outside. It came out as a drawn grimace, and the young man gulped and shook visibly.

Clutching the railings – placed by sympathetic a Second-Class only months earlier – for support, the cadet didn't notice any changes. He knew internally that it was foolish to think an effect could come about so quickly as that, but a small part of him hoped that it would. Eventually finding his way to the small room he shared with five other cadets, he lay down on the hard, lumpy bed, determinedly not whimpering in newfound pain as sore muscles attempted to support him. He _was_ going to show them all. Sleeping fitfully, the cadet dreamed of bloodied water and two glowing orbs.

* * *

The mood, if it could be called that, was a mixed combination of grimness and anger. The table they sat at was hewn rock, suiting the stony silence that had fallen upon them after witnessing the events through their last living surrogate. Finally, one of the dozen there, a woman, dressed in flowing red robes embroidered in green leaves and vines, with elaborately plaited hair at last sighed and spoke, voice tinged with unbelieving sadness. "Aeris ... poor, poor girl." The winds, which had been still before, rose in quick assent, bringing with it the soft yet burning scent of tears wept in emotion. Part of her wanted to laugh with incredulity at the circumstances leading to her daughter's ejection, while another wanted to lie down and weep at the consequences. This cheery land, scenic, snow-capped mountains and rolling, golden plains, did not suit her. Ifalna had always preferred the quiet solitude of a snowy meadow, or the dark, shadowy colors of an old forest. True, she enjoyed the crisp, clean air that these mountaintop meetings provided her, but she felt unsafe here ... exposed, almost. Her last seven years in life, spent at the mercilessly probing hands of a certain laughing, Wutain scientist, had ingrained that fear in her. 

Across from her at the table, a younger male, lined face dark and with oily black hair shaved on the left half of his head and worn to the waist on the right, scowled with anger, and the light around them dimmed. Here, no earthly detail was ever certain; the Planet changed and fluctuated in response to their feelings and senses, adapting itself easily to the situation at hand to better suit its protectors. Gesturing at the woman in red, the man spoke tersely. "Why does she refuse to hear us, Ifalna? Why does she choose to ignore the Planet? Why must she be such an ignorant fool?" His voice had rose in a gradual crescendo, with the last question almost a roar of outrage. The distant sound of a beast's growl accentuated his bitter tones. The others remained silent, though it was clear that they too were unsettled by the latest turn of events.

Ifalna sighed deeply, and a soft yet heavy wind rose briefly in their meeting. The place was getting quite chaotic, she mused. Normally, each deceased Cetra stayed within the bounds within their own Promised Land, and that land bent and shaped itself over the years to the whims and thoughts of its owner. However, for serious occasions such as these, the clashing viewpoints and perspectives could be ... troubling, to say the least. Earlier in the evening had not been the first time they had sat through a simultaneous hurricane and earthquake, and with present company, Ifalna knew it probably wouldn't be the last. "Baracs, I explained who and what she was to her early on in her childhood ... Surely, you remember her speaking with you a dozen years earlier." She knew, with a sad twinge, what had probably caused her daughter to close to the Cetra and the Planet. Ever since she had died by the train station steps and left Aeris to fend for herself, Ifalna had not been able to converse voluntarily with her, and neither had the other Ancients or even the Planet. The only way they could speak, now, was hardly savory; breaking down another's mental barriers and forcefully inserting one's thoughts was nothing short of rape to the Cetra. "Perhaps she reacted badly to my dying ... she could be trying to destroy whatever images she had of me in order to move on, and I can hardly blame her. I should have held on." She bowed her head in shame, remembering how she let herself let go, too tired to go on. "We must accept it and continue with our task regardless; she knows nothing of us. Her memories are gone." That last came in a tone of dejected hopelessness, and a black chasm opened before them on the plateau, gaping and empty.

The image of Aeris returned to them, blurred and faded from the lack of openness and the all-too-painful tension and suspicion emanating from her mind, even as it slept. She looked so pitiful there, so uncertain, clutching at herself as if to comfort against an unknown enemy. Baracs shook his head angrily, and the Ancient on his right, Arilan, uttered a sharp curse, provoking a lightning strike mere feet from them. Ifalna turned to her angrily; they could not "die" here unless the Planet that they were tied to died, but it was unnerving in any case. Arilan lowered her face, muttering something akin to an apology. At last, Baracs spoke haltingly, head down. "I ... searched her thoughts earlier." Ifalna's was not the only one to gasp in shock at that; old day or new, _that_ had been among the worst crimes that any of the People could commit. Baracs continued quickly, clenching his fists, before anyone could interrupt him. "I thought the situation warranted it, and I was correct, it seems. We must be careful, now. She thinks of going to _him_." The last word was spoken in a quiet, deadly hiss. That brought another bout of silence, in aghast this time.

Ifalna's thoughts, collected mere minutes ago, were reeling in shock. No, irrational and jumpy as her daughter as was, she couldn't _possibly_ think of attempting to seek out the spawn of the Calamity. Even as she thought of Jenova, her mind was clasped in unearthly pain for a brief second, a vision of a leering blue smile and cold pink eyes. It was a warning instilled in all of the Cetra after the Calamity had been defeated, a warning against her and any who carried a part of her. Aeris should not even have been able to speak with him without collapsing in pain. The only logical conclusion, one that fit so well with the rest and yet seemed impossible, came to her suddenly colorless lips in a quiet, worried voice. "She can't feel Jenova. She doesn't have the safeguards." Baracs nodded in silence, and Arilan cursed again; the others ignored her. Ifalna continued in the same tone as before. "If she goes to him, and he remembers who he is ... this is not good." She pleaded with her eyes to the rest of the Elders. "We must watch her, we must help her! For the love of the Light and the sake of the Planet, we must!"

Baracs smiled, if one could call it that, a clenching of the lips into a snarling picture of fear and anger. Yet his voice came out calm and perfectly neutral. "In times like these, the term 'calamity' comes to mind." Then he laughed, a bitterly cold sound that sent shivers done Ifalna's spine. Around them, the Planet muttered and groaned, as dark clouds amassed and errant lightning bolts began grazing the treetops. It's meaning, ambiguous at times, could not be clearer now. A storm was coming.

* * *

(A/N: The Aeris/Elmyra conversation was so fun to write Seriously, though, I hate it when people are misunderstood because they're not seeing from the same perspective. Oh, and I hope I did alright with the characterization. I really ought to play through the game again, one of these weeks... 

Please leave a review. They're as good a motivation as I'm ever going to get.)


	3. Beginnings and Ends

(A/N: Well, this came up a bit later than I would have hoped, but it's also a bit longer, so I hope that works out. Once this chapter is done, I can get on with the _real _conflict of the story.

In other news, seems to dislike me greatly. My pen name won't show up on the Search engine, and neither will this fiction. It also seems to me that my updates don't make the "Just In" list. To top it off, the Tech Support page doesn't load, and displays some generic "too many connections" line when I try to ask them about it. Overall, it's pretty irritating.

I would like to thank ShadowXenVII, Dragonsdaughter1, and Starfall4790 by taking some time to review this. Good, bad, or indifferent, it really does serve to motivate me.

I've also been sending out Review replies whenever possible, but as the system hasn't been very good to me before, I'd just to ask if you've received them or not. If not, I suppose I'll put in a small section here regarding those.

Technical errors. Grr.)

* * *

**Threads of Spirit:  
Beginnings and Ends**

Every fire, however great, dies eventually, and what lies in the ashes is truth once hidden behind the dancing flames. The sun had risen, though those under the Plate had no idea of that, and the brilliantly blue sky, devoid of any but the lightest, whitest clouds, declared that it would be a wonderful day. For better or for worse, those under the Plate had no idea of that, either. People began awakening, either from habit or from the reminders of an alarm repaired into activity, most of them with memories of a useless day behind of them and with the dull prospect of another useless day ahead. Some got out of bed automatically, while others lay motionless and rose eventually only through strength of will. There were people like that who didn't rise at all, too, and their ranks were swelling with each passing day. Then there were those who had no idea how they had spent the evening, with memories, as they were, drowned out either in alcohol or some other variety of mind-altering substance. For the most part, they slept on as the sun climbed into the sky, snoring until they woke up to face whatever kind of life they had been trying to escape the night before. 

Elmyra Gainsborough turned over on her hard, unpadded mattress to blearily slam her hand down on the old alarm clock that her husband had found and fixed so many years ago. The thought of Mat, young and handsome as he marched off to fight the war he had never returned from, still threatened to bring a tear to her eyes, but it had been a long time. Something in the back of her head seemed to tickle at her consciousness. Her head hurt, too; she wondered idly if she had hit it on something yesterday night. Staggering over to the small washroom, she tried to remember what it was that had happened a dozen hours ago, but she couldn't think of anything that would have caused such pain. In fact, she couldn't seem to remember yesterday at all. She scowled at the mirror, cracked and grimy; she had always had a good memory. Washing out her mouth – Light, but it tasted terrible; she made a reminder to stop drinking her tea at night. Had she taken it yesterday? No, that wasn't important.

Walking quietly along the sparse carpeting of their second story, she opened Aeris' door a crack, surprised that the bed was empty and the sheets were folded. For the one, Aeris usually didn't wake up yet, even if she did, she would have taken the time to wake her mother up, too. For the second, Aeris _never_ did her chores as a child, and the habit of not making up her bed had followed her to the current day. Shaking her head, she concluded that her daughter had simply gone out earlier, today, and maybe she had learned some responsibility, too. Again, that tickling sensation came at the back of her head, but she ignored it, attributing it to the headache that still plagued her; she resolved to make a trip to the Pharmacy in Wall Market for some aspirin after breakfast. There would be few of the locals out, at this early hour. She couldn't stand them.

Walking down the stairs, she noticed that quite a few things were out of place in her usually immaculate kitchen. Muddy boot tracks streaked the carpeting, and an opened letter lay on the table, while a bottle stood half-empty on the kitchen counter. She scowled, moving towards the table. Aeris might have disliked her chores, but open disorganization was never a part of her. Picking up the letter – she noted distantly that it had several places where it looked like the paper had been wet but had subsequently dried. The tickling thoughts in her mind reached an all-time high, but Elmyra put them down forcefully. Then she glanced at the actual text of the letter, and her heart missed a beat. She remembered it all, sinking into the chair of her kitchen, her knees suddenly unsteady.

_The clock on the counter read 12:06, and Elmyra busied herself with her standard evening tea, setting the water kettle onto the stove, and wondering idly where Aeris was; she was usually back from the Plate by this time. A discreet knock sounded at the door, tenative and light, and she began walking over to it, thinking that it was her daughter. Perhaps she had forgotten her keys on the way out the door, but that wasn't likely with her excellent memory. She opened the thick door a crack, in the manner of the slums, surprised to see that it was not Aeris, but a young, unkempt boy carrying a large, plain envelope._

_Without waiting for her, he began talking quickly, excitedly. "A man was walkin' 'round Sector 5 today, askin' if we any of us knew ya. He gave me tat and said he was a __ currier ... from Mat, whoever dat is. I – "_

_He broke off dejectedly as Elmyra snatched the envelope, slamming the door shut as she tore the thick paper open. A small part of her mind reproached her for not offering the child anything, but she was by far more interested with reading anything, even supposedly, from Mat. Yes, Shinra had said he was dead, but Shinra lied a lot, didn't it? A small but incessantly active part of her soul had wished, even yearned that he was still alive, somewhere, somehow. Unfolding the paper rapidly, she stared at the salutation, not believing her eyes._

"_Gainsborough,"_

_Was that all? Not even "Elmyra", or one of the loving nicknames he had given her, and not even any kind of endearment at all? Easing herself absentmindedly into a chair, she began to read. It was not long at all, but she went through it three times before putting it down, clasping her hands to keep them from shaking._

_Gainsborough,_

_Defected. Married. Don't contact._

_Mat_

_Four words. Harsh, stunning words, those were, without any extra for her to brace herself with. She picked up the letter again, looking at each word in turn, as if it could possibly soothe her. Her eyes began to moisten already, and she silently willed them not to. She was _not_ a crier, and she wouldn't burden Aeris with this. The Light knew that child had problems enough, already. _

_Defected; he had fallen from Shinra's banner to join Wutai. A number of troopers had, but for the most part Sephiroth had hunted them down in person, determined to make examples of them and prevent further numbers from deserting. So somehow, Mat had survived that, though it was far more likely that the General had been preoccupied with other things at the time. Elmyra was torn between feeling grateful that he had lived and devastated that Sephiroth hadn't killed him, leaving him alive to send her ... _this

_Married; he had gotten over her and found someone else. She couldn't believe that. She just couldn't. Cradling her head in her hands, she felt her breathing become ragged, determined not to cry. Instead, she wondered if he had told his – new – wife about her or simply had never touched on the matter. Oh, Light, she had never thought that this could possibly happen. There had been a few times when she had thought it would be best to get over Mat and find someone else to help take care of Aeris, but she had always given it up, clinging instead to whatever small hope remained that he would be back. How had he gotten over her so quickly? How? No! She would _not_ cry! A few beads of liquid trailed down her lined cheeks, though, no matter what she did._

_Hurriedly refolding the already wet-stained letter and tucking it in back into the envelope – she did not want it damaged any more than possible – she tried to take deep, calming breaths like she had taught Aeris to, when her heart was troubled. It was not going to work; she felt as if there were a hand, clawed and vicious, grasping her soul, trying to crush it in thick iron bands of intense pain. Fate was being most cruel to her; she had suffered enough in the past, hadn't she? Why did she have to go through all of this? What wrongs had she done?_

_Her control shattered; her muscles jerked once in a spasm before going completely limp, tears rolling down her face, as she shook like a rag in high wind, grasping desperately against the table to prevent herself from falling to the ground. Her breath came in wretched sobs, and she used all of her remaining breath to shriek, "For the love of the Light, why!" over and over, voice fading as she repeated the mantra, as if she expected some divine angel to answer. She didn't know how long she was like that, head slumped against the kitchen table, but at long last her tears ran out and her breath steadied. The pain remained though, coursing and throbbing against her soul as she slowly wiped her eyes, red and moist, with her sleeve._

_Sitting there quietly, though, rage soon replaced anguish, a fire that started small and began growing rapidly as she continued to fuel it with her thoughts. So, that damned bastard of a man decided to leave her, did he? He had the gall to send her a letter like this? Well. She was going to go to Wutai herself – locked gates or not, if a courier could get in, she could get out – and give Mister Matthew Gainsborough a piece of her mind! The kettle began shrieking, almost as if keening a war cry, and Elmyra took a glance at the clock – had it really been an hour already? She wondered where in the name of Hades her daughter was. Worrying her like this ... Grumping to herself, she turned off the gas stove, settling back down in her chair to wait. As the minutes passed on, she fumed; what could possibly be holding up Aeris like this? She had no right to make her mother concerned like this._

_At long, long last, she heard fumbling at the door and the soft, scraping sound of a key. Elmyra took another look at the clock – 2:11. As the door finally opened and a dirty, disheveled Aeris finally stumbled through the door, she raised an eyebrow coolly and spoke firmly, her voice revealing nothing of the sadness that had taken her hours before, nor of the more recent rage that she held firmly in check. "Hello, dear."_

"Oh, gods." Elmyra's eyes widened in shock as she recalled how that conversation had gone on, the harsh and accusing words her own mouth had uttered hatefully, uncaring. She remembered the hurt shock that had overwhelmed her daughter's eyes, the grim satisfaction that she had felt when she threw her out the door. Then she recalled what had happened afterwards, how she had gone through Mat's wine cabinet, picking a bottle at random and going at it like one of the slum drunks. She clapped a hand over her mouth, an immense wave of shame and self-hatred rolling through her.

"Oh, gods," she repeated in a soft voice on the brink of shaking.

What would her dear Aeris believe of her, now? Did she want to hit her foster mother, to kill her? _No_, Elmyra thought,_ Aeris wouldn't think like that._ The girl had always been restrained and calm, but she had been drawing on her mother's unwavering strength and support to maintain that facade, Elmyra knew. How would she react to her foundation being shaken so badly, so rapidly? Elmyra rushed to her feet, shaking hands fumbling to unlock the door before throwing it aside. It could not be too late. This had to be salvageable!

Her eyes swept left and right rapidly, locking on a trail of boot prints half-deformed from the mud. She followed them into the garden hesitantly, eyes falling in shame as she caught a sight of pink amongst the yellow blossoms. Elmyra's breath caught; Aeris looked so weak there, so helpless, yet beautiful even so in a soft, demure way. She noted the trails on her daughter's face, from where tears had gone unheeded and dried in the night air, as well as the bruises on her upper arms from where she had seized her, with a deep self-loathing. How could she have done this to her little darling, the one person she treasured most?

Timidly, and hating herself for it, Elmyra lightly tapped her daughter on the shoulder. She opted out of her usual waking-up technique, an affectionate kiss on the forehead, telling herself that she didn't deserve to do it, not yet. Not after last night. Crouching to better facilitate eye contact, she waited for Aeris to wake up. It wouldn't take long, she knew; her daughter had always been a light sleeper, and she never tried to feign continued slumber, for which Elmyra was grateful.

Both eyes opened, the emerald green looking drearily dull and tired at first, lacking the luster that usually was in them from waking. After a brief second, realization occurred, and Aeris hastily eased herself into a sitting position, eyes narrowed suspiciously, irises flashing in badly concealed anger. Elmyra cringed; how much damage had she done to her, and how long would it take to correct it? She would try no matter what, but what if it was irreparable? What if she lost Aeris forever?

"Elmyra," Aeris stated flatly. The word came out in a bitter voice that Elmyra had never heard her daughter use before. "What do you want?"

Something about it just broke her down completely, seeing her daughter like this, hostile and unyielding, preparing, it seemed, for battle. Blue eyes glistening with emotion, she rushed forward and embraced Aeris tightly, words running rapidly as they left her as soon as her mind could form the thoughts.

Her voice trembled as she muttered into her daughter's hair, "Oh, darling, I'm so sorry about what I said earlier to you, every last word of it! Mat, he just sent me a letter, and I, I was so confused and angry, and then when you came home, I was worried about you being late and being hurt, but I misunderstood you so badly, and I overreacted and, and ... Aeris, dear, I am _so_, _so_ incredibly sorry for doing what I did. Please ... forgive me?" Looking hopefully into Aeris' eyes, Elmyra knew and didn't care that she was crying again.

Aeris looked well and truly surprised, as well she might. Her eyes, though, had relaxed from their previously tense stance, instead returning to their usual soft roundness as she considered Elmyra with the usual blend combination of sadness, respect, and caring.

Her voice, when she spoke, was soft and emphatic. "Oh, I didn't know that Mat had written ... what did he say to make you so mad, mother? He has to be alive, then, doesn't he?"

"He ... defected ... during the war, and he ..." Elmyra hesitated, working up the resolve to continue. "He found someone else in Wutai. He said he didn't want to hear from me ever again." Elmyra trembled, fighting to keep her voice under control. For the first time, she felt her daughter return her embrace, and she felt a brief sense of relief for that. Aeris was not gone.

"Oh, mother, I'm so sorry for you ... and _of course_ I forgive you!" Her voice was so open, so sincere; this was the Aeris that her mother knew and loved.

Elmyra beamed, blue eyes radiant. "Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you! Now, let's get you back home with a hot meal and a change of clothes."

Aeris nodded fervently, face alight with a brilliant smile, and for two people, all was right with the world.

* * *

"With no delay." That had been his orders, and as much as he hated his job, Reno Jahar always followed his stated orders to the letter. What wasn't stated, though ... he had no desire to promote the company that he hated, now did he? And so, here he was, standing concealed in the shadows at the mouth of a dimly lit alley, looking at his target as she wept in the arms of her mother and deciding how best to capture her. Damn. 

_I hate this job. I just. Hate. It_. But there was no other way, was there? He knew fully well that his sense of honor was a peculiar one, a heap of statements that more often than not disagreed and sometimes flat-out contradicted one another. He would always follow his orders, no matter what. He would also not harm unarmed women, no matter what. And if picking up a woman's daughter so that someone like Hojo could mess around with her wasn't considered "harm", the Light burn him, he didn't know what was. Still, orders, in the past and in the future, would _always _come first.

With a heavy sigh, he walked forwards at his normal pace, what most non-military figures called "brisk", his loping gait easily covering the distance. The two women didn't notice him at all, and just when he had come within a few feet of the two, Aeris had smiled. Frankly, the sight took his breath away like few other things did. He knew that she hadn't done it because of him, but the way it seemed to make her entire body glow with happiness, eyes twinkling with joy, tugged at strings deep within him that he dared not acknowledge on missions.

_As soon as that twisted bastard Hojo gets his claws on her, she'll never smile like that again_. Reno raged mentally. _What kind of personal hell am I consigning this sweet, innocent girl to?_

The files, which he had read over in their entirety three times, had been very clear on that; she had never been indicted for any crimes at all and was apparently well known both in the slums and on the Plate for her kindness and compassion. That just made it worse; it was easy enough – well, Reno admitted, easier – bringing in a murderer, or even killing one if that's what it came down to. Reno told himself he was doing society a favor, and his conscience decided to let that pass. People like this, though, who had never done a wrong thing in their lives, what excuse could he possibly have for them? How could he ever accept what damage he caused them?

Every mission like this wore a bit at his soul, which had never been quite intact in the first place. He knew that eventually, he would just break down from the incessant burden and strain; it was one reason he had adopted his joking, carefree stance – a psychiatrist had told him once long ago that it would be good for him, and the Turk had taken a lot of time to master this particular illusion. However, Reno thought, it might have fooled others, but he couldn't hide from himself. Yet he tried that, too, drinking as he did, and it obviously didn't work. Zack had come over to his office yesterday afternoon, making that fact very clear.

"_Damn it, Reno, you can't keep doing this to yourself! You'll end up dead this way!" Zack said vehemently, slamming a gauntleted fist down on Reno's cheap metal desk, sending some of the already chaotically arranged paperwork fluttering into the air before descending and further destroying whatever sense of organization that there might have once been._

"_Look, Zack, I know you're my buddy and have my best interests at heart, but I swear: I know what I'm doing here, alright? Just, you know, chill and get on back to SOLDIERing. I have work to do," Reno retorted. He was trying to get the goddamned transition forms on his assignment done, something all the Turks hated, and while the visit's intention was duly noted and appreciated, this was hardly saving him any time._

"_No, I'm not going to just "chill", Reno. I am your friend! Friends are supposed to _care_ about one another, remember, and for all my faults, I'll be damned if I just give up on you. I just came by to tell you that I will personally restrain you from getting drunk ever again if you don't decide yourself to stop," his voice was deadly serious, but then he lightened up again, "Hey, remember, I rank you."_

"_Ugh ... look, now's not a very good time, alright?" the redhead dodged furtively, "I have some twenty-odd pages left of forms to fill out, and I had hopes of finishing this in an hour ... until you showed up, at least." He tried to put in some conviction, but he knew his friend was right._

_Zack sighed, "You know how it is. I'm not leaving until I get an answer out of you. The _right_ answer, mind." Forgoing a chair, he cleared a corner off of the Turk's desk and sat down.  
_

"_You're no fun at all."_

True to his word – as always – the ever-loyal, ever-irritating Zack had stayed in his small, cramped office for well over six hours before even he finally admitted defeat. If he was this tenacious on the battlefield, Reno thought, it was no wonder that Sephiroth had taken a liking to him. That thought still spooked the Turk occasionally when he took the time to think about it – he was one person away from knowing, _really_ knowing, the General. To himself, he could admit that Sephiroth scared the hell out of him.

Enough with this nonsense. He was only wasting time, standing here like an idiot. The two women before him _still_ hadn't noted his presence. _How the heck do you stay alive in the slums when you can't even take note of your surroundings?_ Reno thought. Time to get this over with. Then he could collect his pay and move on. And that was all. Nothing more. _Nothing more_.

"Aeris Gainsborough. You are under arrest by executive order of President Shinra," Reno stated the official warrant as he had been taught, voice clear and enunciating every syllable. Hating every syllable for the pomp and grandeur, the sense that it was _right_, that it was _lawful_.

Then they noticed him. Aeris' dazzling eyes widened in shock, and her smile died away immediately. Shaking her head silently but desperately, she looked as if she were trying to break free from her mother's embrace and run. Reno frowned for multiple reasons; the one he admitted to himself was that running would be useless, as he stood in the way of the only way out. He missed the smile, too. No, he did not. Damn it, he did _not_ miss the smile.

"Look, this is how it's going to happen. I really don't want to arrest you, but I have my orders, and I follow my orders to the letter. That is, I'm going to try and make this as easy as possible for you, so long as you cooperate," now, his tone was just weary; there was simply no easy way to go about this, "You're going to come with me to Shinra HQ, where you're going to talk to Director Tseng."

Reno noted her brief flash of recognition upon hearing the name. She seemed to have calmed down, or rather; the desire to flee irrationally was gone from her. Instead, Aeris sunk into her mother's hold. The latter woman embraced her protectively, glaring at the Turk with flashing eyes.

Since neither looked as if they planned on saying anything for some time yet, Reno continued. "I don't have orders to harm you if you don't resist or try to escape, so please don't, for your sake and mine. I also do not have orders to restrain you unless you resist or attempt escape, so once again, please don't. It's inevitable that you're going to be coming with me, but I don't think it's necessary to cause you any harm. Let's make this easier on both sides, alright?"

Aeris sighed, but it was obvious to Reno that she was steeling herself for what would come next. "Okay. Can I at least get a change of clothes before I go? I know Oda wouldn't want to talk to me like this." She gestured at her mud-splattered dress and coat.

Reno cringed inside; he could not very well tell her that she wouldn't need clothes where she would be going, could he? "Alright, but don't take too long, okay? Is ten minutes enough?" _Oda?_ He himself hadn't known the Director's first name.

"I guess it'll have to be." Aeris gave him a brief smile before trotting back towards the house, leaving the two of them standing there awkwardly, neither looking at the other.

Reno opted to break the silence with his trademark apology. "Look, um, I really, _really_ don't want to have to do this, you know. It's just ... I can't very well disobey my orders, can I?" His voice was strained.

The woman, surprisingly, softened her expression and gave him a pat on the shoulder and replied in a comforting tone, "I understand. Mr. Tseng used to come over, too, but mostly they'd just talk, while I watched ... we both knew this was going to happen someday. I guess we just tried to hide the truth from ourselves" A pause. "I appreciate that you're making things easier on Aeris."

That wasn't what Reno expected at all. No cursing, no crying, no raging and lashing out at him. And a pat on the shoulder? No one _ever_ gave you a pat on the shoulder in the slums, unless they were trying to stick a knife in you; the Turk knew this from various personal recollections. Reno had had enough experiences with those, and various other sharp instruments, far too often for his own liking. To this day, he still disliked swords and knives, opting to fight with a rod instead. It might still be deadly, but at least he didn't have to worry about being haunted by corpses with torn rents, blood streaming. The dead were bad enough.

They waited in relative silence after that, as the sounds of Midgar, a city awakening, slowly began to surge around them. Reno was grateful for that; he disliked ominous silences. Soon enough, Aeris emerged from the house clad in a somewhat cleaner outfit; the Turk was just glad she had kept her word and not tried to do something idiotic, like trying to evade him somehow.

"Remember, don't try to escape, and don't try to resist, and I can treat you as well as anyone else," Reno reminded her, gesturing for her to start walking.

"Wait," Aeris considered him with a serious expression in her eyes, "Can you answer one question, first?" At the Turk's obvious hesitation, she added, "It'll go a long way in helping both of us get over my leaving." Darn it, she had found the right button to push _already_?

_Ah, well, what harm can it do?_ "Ask," he replied, voice harsher than he wanted it to be, and he moderated his tone. "One question."

"Why am I such a threat to Shinra? Why am I being arrested?" Her tone was thick with confusion, open and obvious. It wasn't a bluff; the redhead had had enough experience dealing with liars to tell when someone was actually speaking the truth.

"You mean Tseng _never_ told you? For all of _three years_!" Reno asked in tones of incredulity. _Tseng... damn it, this is _not_ how we're supposed to operate! And _you_ were the one to talk to _me_ about not letting emotions interfere with missions?_

"No, he didn't..." Aeris looked uncertain, sounding worried, "Whenever he came by, about once every week, we would just talk for a few hours, and then he would say that he had something else to take care of, and he left."

Reno groaned mentally and made a note to have a little chat with Tseng as soon as he got back, but replied in a calm, terse voice, "Believe me, you don't need to know yet, Aeris. You'll be told when you speak to Director Tseng; he'll tell you then, I'm sure." He had better, at least. "Come on; we're leaving."

"Alright..." Aeris frowned at the answer, turning to flash one last smile at her mother, who smiled back before waving slightly, "Let's go, then."

Reno thought the two of them were taking this _quite_ well, considering that both had been sobbing furiously not ten minutes ago. _Women are strange_. He shook his head wryly. They walked quickly along the worn dirt path until they were out of Elmyra's sight, when he took Aeris' left hand and clasped it in his right, making sure he didn't exert too much force and harm her. She jerked instinctively, but Reno was far stronger than her.

Indignation. "Hey! What was that about not restraining me?"

"Think of it as a comforting presence, then," Reno retorted lightly, giving her a cheeky grin as she frowned at him again.

"I do _not_ need a comforting presence, and I most certainly do _not_ want you holding my hand like that."

Reno threw back his head and laughed, which mildly surprised the girl, her eyebrows rising. "So, want me to bind and gag you instead, and then drag you to the Shinra Building on a leash?" _Interesting mental imagery_. "I could do that, too, you know," the Turk reminded her, grinning.

"I think I'll pass on that."

The rest of the trip to the service elevator passed in near silence as Aeris descended into a state that Reno would have called a mix between meditation and depression. Like a lot of the people he brought in, even if she didn't know what she was in for, Reno thought, she wasn't looking forward to it. _Hell, who would?_

Activating the lift with his keycard, he stepped in and pressed the 'UP' key, and the door slid closed with a grinding squeak behind them. The elevator was nothing more than a small box that rose and fell between the two levels, and the cramped conditions forced his "captive" to lean against him. He found himself rather enjoying the proximity, until he realized that her heart rate was much too rapid, and that her delicate hand, still enclosed in his larger, scarred one, was shaking in fear. Whatever thoughts of satisfaction he might have had died with that realization.

_No matter how routine this gets for me, I'll always feel their pain, won't I? There's just no way to escape the truth. _The thoughts came morosely, as usual. He realized that Aeris was having a very adverse effect on him, and resolved to get this over with as quickly as possible. _Damn. _Part of him wished that the elevator transit would never end, and that she would never have to face Hojo. Another, equally vehement part of him wanted to see her gone as soon as possible.

Soon enough, in any case, the elevator reached the Plate level, and the stainless steel doors slid open with that same ear-wrenching shriek. The area that the elevator had taken them to was a rather large business plaza, skyscrapers lancing into the sky on every side, while the door to the chute itself was badly disguised as an artistic decoration. Not many people were out yet, but that would change in a few hours. A few taxicabs were making their rounds, but Reno disregarded them; it was only a short walk to the Shinra Building, whose image was currently hidden behind one of the taller towers of the Plate. Tugging Aeris along – she was still in her pensive stance, and he was not in the mood for idle chatter right now – he began to walk quickly along the rough concrete sidewalks, quickly entering the heart of Midgar proper. Here, the massive Shinra Building loomed oppressively, its multiple skylights and searchlights on even at this early hour of the morning, always searching for resistance, dissidents, and properly disclosed information.

Wide green eyes locked on the immense shaft of steel and glass, the company insignia in blazing red, Aeris moaned in anguish, the first sound she had made for almost an hour. Reno had let his grip slacken, and with a surprisingly vigorous shake of her arm, the girl managed to break herself away from him, darting into one of the numerous side alleys. Cursing rampantly at his carelessness, the Turk pulled out his customized electromagnetic rod from under his coat and turned to chase after her. Luckily for him, her heavy brown boots made distinctive sounds on the Plate as she ran, and while she was quite quick for someone of her stature, she had received neither the training nor the conditioning that the redhead had gone through, and he caught up with her easily.

Grabbing her roughly by the shoulder and twisting her arm painfully to force her onto the ground, he instinctively pointed his weapon at her throat, his thumb on the current control, and warned her in a voice like cold steel, "I told you not to try to escape." Then he sighed and continued on in his more normal tone, "Hey, Aeris, look, I know this has got to be hard on you, but you shouldn't make it any worse than it has to be. I know you're afraid, but please don't do anything rash, or you might just get yourself hurt. I personally am going to do as you little harm as possible, because I'm nice like that, but there are other people out there that I can't say the same for." He let his rod drop to his side with another sigh.

Aeris glared at him vengefully, hissing at him in rage, "I hate you! Why do you have to wreck my life like this? Let me go!" With that, she tried to struggle against him and he pinned her as he was taught to do so, placing his body weight on top of hers and locking her arms behind her back..

_Damn, but she feels pretty good beneath me like this_. Reno scolded himself mentally for the irrelevant thought and spoke in a tired voice. "Look, Aeris, blame the suit, not the man, alright? Orders are orders. If it were up to me, you'd still be with your mom. Come on, let's get going." He didn't think he could endure any more of her company; she was too endearing, whether or not she tried to be, and her inevitable fate far too bleak.

Her writhing ceased, but she still shook with silent weeping. Reno eased himself off of her and helped her up, wondering how in the world women had so many tears to shed. Taking her hand again, he began leading her back to the Shinra Building entrance. Part of him just wanted to hold her silently until she stopped crying, to comfort her, but _that_ would spark far too many rumors, and he could not afford to do it for fear of losing his job, and with it his source of income. He hardened his soul and forced himself to half-drag the weeping girl through the sliding glass doors.

The receptionist started to ask the Turk something, but he shot her a glare that promised painful death, and she shuddered, drawing in on herself before looking back at the assorted papers lying on her desk. He moved to lead Aeris off to the elevator banks to his right, but then he felt a slight tingling, and he knew that _his _eyes were on him.

He casually cast his eyes about until he found him. The General was standing at the entrance to the Gym – ah, yes, the demonstration was today – looking at him with those blazing green eyes, almost as if he were trying to bore a hole in the Turk's head with their gaze. As usual, his guarded expression revealed absolutely nothing, but he very countenance seemed to radiate extreme displeasure. Then he shook his head firmly and turned to enter the chamber, seeming to fade into thin air as he did so. The door opened by invisible hands and shut.

Aeris hadn't noticed at all; her eyes were still shut tightly, as if by denying herself sight, she could avoid the situation; her thin frame quivered slightly, like a rabbit eyeing the cooking fire. Shaking his head, Reno toggled the elevator, keying in his card with a little bit more force than necessary when it prompted him to do so. The elevator, he saw, was currently at the thirty-second floor, and it was descending rapidly. The redhead settled to wait.

When the thick doors opened a few minutes later, though, a familiar – and unwelcome – face looked inquisitively past him.

"Why hello there, Turk," he stated dryly, without turning his head. Senior Professor Tideki Hojo's voice was a cut, sharp and precise. That didn't stop it from gaining occasional tinges of cruelty or insanity, though. "And hello, _dear_. I've been a waiting a very long time to get you back in my custody again," he almost purred as his flat black eyes took in Aeris. "My, how you've grown..."

Aeris' eyes opened in shock. "Who...who are you? And what do you mean, 'again'?" She seemed to gain a bit of defiance as she continued, "I think I would remember if I ever saw a face as repulsive as yours."

Hojo gave one of his rare smiles, a bare widening of cracked lips that showed crooked yellow teeth, and Reno winced. No, the man certainly was not attractive, with his stooped back, thin frame, and sallow, drawn skin, but insulting the Professor was only a way to prolong your agony. And when Hojo smiled, he was going for the throat. Not slit it, of course. That was not his way. He would nick the carotid artery ever so slightly, watching with those unchanging eyes as the victim slowly, agonizingly bled to death, screaming for hours before it was finally over.

Tossing back his ponytail of lank, greasily black hair, he considered her with a roving eye behind his spectacles, liking what he saw in more ways than one. "Oh, you forgot me? How truly sad...I had so much _fun_ with your mother, too, before she escaped. A pity they wouldn't let me work with you then, but now..." He laughed, and it sounded like a demon's cackling as it readied the whip.

"My mother...? You knew my real mother?" Her voice was shocked, and unless Reno's years of training had entirely deserted him, somewhat hopeful. Apparently, Elmyra had been her foster mother; he wondered idly how the file had missed out on that detail.

"Yes, I suppose you could say I..._knew_...Ifalna..." A pause. "Ah, I see... you destroyed your memories in an attempt to defend yourself, didn't you? You built up a wall around your past. I would have expected one of _you_ to resist better than that. Perhaps it was because your father was so weak. Well, there's a time and place for everything, I suppose." He turned to Reno, irritably snapping his long, tapered fingers. "You'll give the girl to me. Now."

Reno faced the Wutain coolly; while Hojo ranked him, he could not simply take her like this. "My orders were to take her to Director Tseng, Professor Hojo."

"Your orders have been changed," he replied scathingly, pulling out of a sheet of paper and shoving it in the redhead's face. "Give me the girl now."

Reno scanned the document and swore loudly, though few were there to notice, and no one cared. "Well, Aeris, there's nothing I can do. You'll have to go with him." With a slight push, he released his grip on her. Any resistance on his part would do neither of them good.

"No, no, you can't let him take me!" Aeris' voice was a desperate cry as Hojo's bony hand clutched down on her shoulder, dragging her to him inside the elevator.

"Sorry, Aeris ... there's nothing I can do." The words burned him as he spoke as dispassionately as possible.

Hojo grinned maniacally, pressing the "Close Door" button. As the portal slid shut, Reno focused on her face and burned it into his mind. Light, he would probably never see her alive again, but he would be damned if he didn't make Hojo pay for this!

* * *

There were few things more motivational to the conventional human mind than a combination of respect and fear, and Shinra made use of this phenomenon quite effectively, Rude thought with something close to a smile. He hadn't been truly happy for over a dozen years now, but some things in life were still amusing – somewhat so, at least. What was about to happen in the next half-hour certainly was.

The locker room in the Shinra Building's massive subterranean Gym was empty except for Rude today, for the demonstration, and he took his time in dialing the combination lock to his personal changing room, making sure with a casual glance that everything was where it was supposed to be. He didn't bother with keycards or fingerprinting or iris scans; they could be fooled, and if a 25-set combination couldn't keep intruders not, nothing could.

Taking off his freshly pressed blue suit and white shirt to reveal a multitude of old scars and a toned mass of wiry muscle, he strode over to his armory, rifling through the extensive container until he found one of his Ziedrich. It was an interesting piece, and rare – only three that he knew of had ever been made, and all were in the possession of Shinra, or, more precisely, Rude. Made of a black metal that was strangely supple – it bent as easily as well-oiled leather – the Ziedrich could not be broken, pierced, melted, frozen, disintegrated, or harmed in any way that the Turk knew of, and he had conducted various experiments on one to ascertain it's weaknesses. It also, though no one was sure how, provided the wearer with complete bodily protection both physically and magically, further weakening all elemental attacks directed at it by a half. While it had no Materia slots, it served its purpose of keeping the Turk alive, and that was what mattered in the long run.

Placing the Ziedrich firmly around his abdomen, Rude unlocked his somewhat smaller box of Accessories, handling his Tetra Elemental bracelet with care as he placed it snug around his left wrist. It seemed so fragile, a series of intricately interwoven plaits of a glassine substance only a millimeter thick; the only distinguishing factor it had was that depending on how the light hit it, it seemed to glow vibrantly in shades of red, blue, white, and green. However, appearances aside – it drew a lot of derogatory comment when he wore it in public, for some reason – it had saved the Turk a great deal of trouble when he was out in the bush, dealing with Dragons and Serpents and the like, for it had the unique ability to absorb Fire, Ice, Lightning, and Earth energy located near the user and convert it into a curative force. It would be pivotal to his demonstration. Slipping on Reno's Tough Ring – his partner was kind enough to always let him borrow it when he didn't need it, which Rude was grateful for – and his preferred Master Fist, he put on his uniform again and, locking his room behind him, entered the Gym.

Normally full of gleaming, state-of-the-art equipment and sweating Shinra employees trying to work off their sedentary lifestyles, the massive Gym was cleared out today, as it was one day every month. Around two hundred people, most of them young men, all reasonably fit, crowded the open floor, sticking in small groups and talking loudly. Rude found that amusing; Shinra was giving them one last day of freedom before it began exacting its training regimen, closing down like an iron fist. Sitting to one side of the complex were Tseng and Heidegger, as usual not talking, or looking at one another at all. Rude frowned slightly; he didn't see Reno. The lanky redhead was usually here, too, as the Turks sometimes took early pickings for their program; the dark fighter assumed that he was off on his mission already. There would be one other in this room, too, but Rude didn't waste his time trying to find Sephiroth. That one could hide, Rude thought with a touch of admiration, when he had a mind to.

The heavy door behind him closed with a loud boom, and two hundred pairs of eyes turned towards him, some recognizing the blue suit and some not. No matter; they would all know and respect him before the hour was over.

Keying his small microphone, he began in a light, conversational tone, "Good morning, cadets. My name is Rude. I'm here to train you in unarmed combat."

That caused a murmur in the crowd, of course – it always did. Rude knew that the long sleeves of his suit and pants concealed his muscles quite well, and he wasn't all that tall of a man. One of the cadets, a tall blond who looked the stereotypical bodybuilder, sneered at him.

"He ain't so tough. Betcha I could take him on myself," he drawled, drawing a few appreciative glances from the crowd. "Hell, I ain't having a baldie teaching _me_ to fight!"

Rude merely smiled at him, a mirthless flash of shining white teeth. The idiot would learn. They all would, eventually. Abruptly, he stuck out his right ring finger, retracting it after a heartbeat. Feigning shaking his head at the boisterous cadet, he caught Tseng's nod. It was time for the fun to begin. _Let's start the music_.

Suddenly, a portion of the ceiling crumbled and broke – _something else for that Reeve to moan about_, Rude thought – raining dust not three feet from where the Turk stood. Some of the cadets drew back, but the Turk merely stood there, turning his head to look at the gaping hole. He knew what was coming next, as only three others in the room did. Cracking his knuckles dramatically, he extended his arms in his preferred Fouad stance and pivoted smoothly on the tile floor as soon as he saw a flickering shadow appear on the ground beneath the hole.

H5N3 Carry Armor was a strange thing, Rude mused, as so many of Shinra's extensive ranks of war machines were. Painted a dull matte gray, it looked quite unsteady on its four tapered legs, the two oversized arms swinging menacingly through the air as it landed with a loud crash onto the Gym floor. Behind him, Rude thought he heard a collective gasp of shock from the cadets behind him.

Rude's spoke calmly, as if they were discussing some trivial matter over light drinks. "This will be your first demonstration on the benefits of combining physical and Materia attacks. Observe."

Drawing deeply on his vast energy reserves, he activated three of his Materia at once, a simple trick of the mind that most people never got the hang of. And while he couldn't direct his individual weaves – apparently, only the SOLDIER Commander White and Sephiroth himself could do that – the mere blending of magical and physical attacks could have a massive benefit to the power of both.

A flow of Mastered Fire energy struck the robot's left arm, wreathing it in blossoms of red-and-blue flame, while a simultaneous weave of Mastered Ice entwined itself around Carry Armor's right arm, freezing the join lubricant and rendering it immobile and useless. Without hesitation – one always should press one's advantages – Rude dashed towards the main body, quick, light bolts of Lightning streaking from his fists to smash against the reinforced diamond armor of his opponent, which hadn't even reacted yet. Accompanying his first flurry of elemental strikes, he lashed out at the sensory equipment with his trademark uppercut, the diamond ridges of the Master Fist easily shattering the glass and badly damaging the lens that the Lapis Laser relied on for targeting.

Settling back on his feet to catch his breath after his first salvo, Rude saw the Armor's still-functioning left arm swing towards him rapidly, Without thought – his daily training made most of all this instinct for him – he focused a blast of Ice energy on the joint that connected the arm to the main body. Already weakened from its previous heating, the metal lost further structural integrity, and the Turk simply met the blow with his Master Fist, smiling at the contemptuous ease at which he had accomplished this. The battle was essentially over, his Sense Materia told him, but he decided to give the cadets a show. Seizing the arm with his left hand, he jerked it forwards and then back. The joint groaned under the pressure and came apart, and Rude tossed the useless piece of metal aside as the robot, it's combat AI now going berserk, withdrew slightly across the floor.

"Is that all?" Rude asked in mocking tones for the cadets' sake. His voice was light, unhurried, and he wasn't breathing heavily at all.

This was almost too easy, Rude thought; he made a note to speak with Scarlet regarding her 'projects' in the future. Rushing forward once more, the Turk wove a simultaneous burst of Fire and Ice energy, sending it towards the robot's four walking joints, pivoting as he did so to send a flurry of kicks at the already damaged sensor package. With its support gone, it buckled under the force, trembling.

_Man, this really _is_ too easy_, Rude thought, de-activating his Fire and Ice Materia but tapping into his Aero and Earth orbs. _They need to up the ante next time around_.

A simple weave of Air served to send the robot flying through the Gym, its right arm dangling comically as it attempted to function. Rude set eight weak flows of Lightning to activate one after another, a marching column of bolts stabbing downwards as it seemed to pursue the machine across the chamber. Even as he did so, he ran forward, and when the last flow ceased, he grabbed the Carry Armor's surprisingly still-attached right arm, turning about and using its momentum against it before flinging it down. It fell rapidly, only to be met by the rising peak of Mastered Earth energy, shooting it into the air yet again. As it fell one more time, smoking ominously, Rude pivoted on his left foot, rising into one last powerful kick, centered directly over the machine's engine.

With a slow, creaking groan of warped metal and damaged parts, the H5N3 finally settled on its side, completely and utterly destroyed in barely over a minute. Rude calmly walked back over to the assembled cadets, who were now completely silent. With muted satisfaction, the Turk saw that that annoying blond now had his mouth hanging open. Nonchalantly settling the lapels of his coat, he sat down besides Tseng, leaning back in his chair and with one leg over the over in an image of supreme disdain.

"That," the Turk gestured with the Master Fist, Materia still glowing, "is what each and every one of you should be able to do by the time you finish your training with Shinra." Not that he expected even one of them to be able to replicate his feat, of course.

He wasn't sure who started it, but the sound of a lone man clapping was heard soon after his obviously exaggerated pronouncement. Not long after, all of them were applauding, even the one who had insulted him before. Rude and Tseng shared an amused glance. Now they respected one part of Shinra's power. Soon, they would fear another.

* * *

The room was silent. The applause had died away, slowly, and now it seemed like the air was waiting for a sign to ambush them, sitting perfectly still and quiet until it did. Tseng thought it all rather amusing, really; If this was how Rufus wanted to spend his presidency, the young man would make a laughingstock out of himself. Rambling about power and fear, he was the one who had started these demonstrations half a year ago, and so far it had proved to be noting but a drain of funds, with almost nothing in the way of returns.

As he waited for the General to make his entry – he sure liked the dramatic, whatever his claims to the contrary, Tseng thought – he wondered idly where Reno was, and how he was doing with Aeris. Part of him seriously regretted giving the redhead the burden of dealing with the girl, but he just didn't trust himself to solve the problem at hand without botching things very badly, indeed.

The girl was enigmatic, no doubt about it. However, from his many talks with her, Tseng concluded that she didn't know about herself, about the Cetra, about the Planet. The first time, watching her deal with her own problems – the Light alone knew she had enough of them, he simply could not work up the heart to explain to her and her mother that she had to protect an entire _Planet_ and deal with all of its troubles.

And so he had come back, week after week, telling himself each time that he could get over his regret at seeing her hurt and get the truth to her, and that it would be better once she knew. Unfortunately, it was obvious that his plan had backfired the moment he realized that he was at ease, laughing even, in her presence. His plan, he had realized, simply required him to be enough of a cold-hearted statue to not care about her for it to work, but unlike all of his other projects, the Director had found himself weakening in his resolve, losing his edge, whenever he was around her.

The girl was just _too_ kind for her own good, damn it. She had insisted on him talking about his dilemmas and problems with her, and he had found himself obliging, if not going to into detail, on all of the shadows and nightmares that had haunted him for so long. She had helped him, surely, and Tseng quickly found himself wanting to help her, which was impossible for someone in his stance and position.

Soon enough, he had found himself bringing her gifts, small things of great use to people in the slums. He had listened to her woes, talked her through her doubts, and comforted her when she wept. And so, on a dull Saturday morning, on the way down to the slums, Oda Tseng had a shock, realizing that he had found himself _caring for her_. So obvious yet so surprising he found this that he returned to his office directly, in shame and anger. How had this happened to the Director of the Turks?

He had avoided her for almost a month after that, until the President had reminded him of his duties, offering to send him backup and support if she still continued to manage evading him. That was when he knew, finally, that he couldn't keep this up. Aeris had, somehow, endeared herself to him, and now he could not bear to stand before her with guns pointed at her. He could scarcely imagine doing her any harm at all, and _that_ was when he had finally pressed the file onto Reno, who had so quickly seen the truth in that odd way of his.

Part of him hoped that Reno brought her back immediately to the Shinra Building, and that they could all get over Assignment 1745, but another wished that the redhead could do the same that Tseng had, keeping her safe for as long as possible. It was all so confusing, so irritating! For men whose lives relied on the precise application of logic, it seemed unbelievable that something so petty as human emotion could get in their way.

For his part, he _had_ had that talk with Hojo, not so subtly warning him about proper treatment for the girl, which the greasy-haired man – Tseng was ashamed that they were of the same nationality – had seemed to find amusing. _I'll treat her just as well as every other specimen whom I examine,_ he had said. Perhaps the scientist had even thought his words re-assuring, but Tseng had looked at the records, examining the long list of those who had died at the Professor's hands.

Thinking of how she had changed him so much for the better in the three years that he had known her, and wondering if she would still be functioning to receive his thanks in another three, he bowed his head, swearing in the manner of his ancestors. _The Light burn me_, he vowed silently, _she won't be just another name on a list_.

* * *

What had the flower girl been doing here, detained by the Turks? Sephiroth hated not knowing the answer to something, and even he could only fathom the wildest of guesses for this query. It was probably something to do with her abnormal mind, he decided. Perhaps Hojo was trying to tap her inbred power; maybe he was even considering breeding the trait into humanity. Either way, he knew, the girl was going to suffer quite a bit, even _if_ Hojo decided not to indulge his whims and "enjoy himself", which was quite unlikely. He realized that she would probably not survive for long, and that brought a slight frown to his face; she could have been quite useful in time, if her potential was exposed. No matter; he concentrated on the "task" at hand. 

Sinking to the level of scaring initiates. Sephiroth wondered idly how in the world the greatest General in existence had gotten himself into this. He had stood among them for the entire time, and they hadn't noticed him at all, courtesy of a simple weave of Manipulation. With simpletons like these, bullyboys and brawlers, it was simple to convince their shallow minds that he wasn't there, no matter what their eyes told them. Sighing mentally, he wove a sheet of Fire and Air, creating a shimmering curtain of light that hung suspended on nothing a few feet from the front-most initiate. If he had to do this, he might as well do it well.

"Welcome." One flow made the source of the noise seem to be the curtains of light, while another simple weave made the words loud and booming, reverberating throughout the chamber. "I am your General, Sephiroth." _Though_, he thought, _if I ever have to lead people like _these_ on the battlefield, I'll hand in my resignation letter._

As he spoke, he let the weave disintegrate into nothingness. Bending the fabric of his reality, he inserted himself where the curtain had once been. It was a trick that seemed to have nothing to do with Materia, and he attributed it to his Cetran ancestry. It was certainly helpful in many tactical situations. Unfortunately, he could only Blink – or so he called it – himself and the Masamune, and only for short distances, but it was much better than conventional forms of transport. He heard and ignored a few gasps of surprise. They would be doing much more than that eventually.

"In one year, those few of you who survive training will officially be under my command." He spoke in hard, ringing tones with a sardonic smirk. He ignored the eyes that had widened at "those few of you who survive" and continued, "I expect any forces I must lead to be somewhat competent. If you do not fulfill my requirements on the term 'competency', I will not be pleased."

To demonstrate, he flung out a gloved hand in the direction of the nearest cadet, summoning the Masamune in his mind. The young man before him gulped, brown eyes bulging as he saw the point of the legendary blade mere centimeters from his shaking throat. Only for an instant, though – with a completely unnecessary flash of smoke, Sephiroth Blinked to the other side of the crowd, which promptly began moving away from him. Good. It was nice to have such a pronounced effect, early on.

"Not so fast. I have more to say," Sephiroth smiled then, like a wolf contemplating an especially tasting morsel of deer. "Do not attempt to escape."

Four weaves of Fire and Air formed a cage of sorts around the cadets, its walls formed of what appeared to be dull red wires, almost too thin to be seen. Sephiroth hoped none of the initiates would be so stupid as to try to touch their bounds, though; while it exuded no warmth, the temperature would rival that of the Planet's core. To his immense displeasure, one of the initiates attempted to run, and the wires quite literally sliced him apart, carving burning slashes through his flesh. He was dead before he could scream, and Sephiroth sighed lightly at the bother, crushing the corpse in a fist of Earth. The cadaver disintegrated into fine dust as the other initiates looked at him with true terror in their eyes.

Sephiroth merely grinned at them; it seemed well and truly evil to the initiates. "I will not tolerate attempts at escape or desertion at any time. Anyone – _anyone_ – under my command who attempts to run during a combat operation will have to deal with my _personal_ administrations. And believe me, that man had it easy. During the Wutain War, he would have had days to scream before he died."

Blinking once more to the unoccupied half of the room, he continued, "However, learn well, train well, and fight well, and I will prove to be an infinitely useful ally. I never let down men who serve faithfully. The unfaithful, on the other hand..." He gave them a moment to digest that. "The previous demonstration gave you a look at what a mere human can accomplish. As much as I respect Rude for his fighting skills, he _is_ human, and subject to human limitations. I, on the other hand..."

They had chosen to use a Dragon for this, for the simple reason that normal people feared Dragons. One had been captured from the Nibel Mountains a few weeks earlier, just so Sephiroth could annihilate it and prove his point. A large door to the side of the Gym opened, and the Dragon surged forward, roaring as it lunged towards Sephiroth, gleaming claws and teeth shining under the multiple lights.

Sephiroth ignored it until the very last possible second, with its claws rising forward to maul him – though it would do him barely any harm, he did not want to be seen as someone who allowed himself to be struck. He focused his immense Cetran power, channeling with all of his might, and directed it towards the Dragon. A solid wave of shadow, blacker than moonless midnight, rolled over the Dragon, and it was gone. Just like that, vanishing without a trace. He Blinked back to stand amongst the initiates.

"...am not so constrained," he concluded dryly.

He didn't mention how difficult and tiring it was, even for him. Warping reality to swallow a sentient being was heavily taxing, or else he would have wiped Wutai's army into nothingness and ended the war in a day. Even the Dragon, barely intelligent as it was, had posed a bit of a challenge.

"Over the next year, you will receive extensive training on weaponry, unarmed combat, Materia theory, tactics, and elements of strategy. I trust that you have witnessed and dealt out much violence in your previous lives. Shinra will direct your wrath, hone your rage, and temper your motivations. You will emerge from training far better men than when you entered. Or, you will emerge dead."

His official part of the presentation was over, but he decided to add a finishing touch, just for the sake of it. Letting his over flows die, he began weaving one of the most complex nets of energy that he knew, a blend with touches of virtually every element and Material substance in existence. For this purpose, they had to be present. Finished, he let it coalesce, witnessing with muted glee the screams of the initiates. He had been unsure if it would work as intended.

They were all standing in the blue-green ocean, golden sunlight streaming upon them as a warm breeze wafted a tang of salt their way. Or, at least, their minds told them they were, engrossed in the extensive Illusion that he had laid upon them with painstaking care. And so, they thought they were sinking beneath the rolling waves, drowning, dying. In reality, they simply stood there, eyes gaping at an image that wasn't there, mouths working silently as they thought they were attempting to breath. They also were not respiring, something that was soon apparent to Tseng.

"Sephiroth, stop this immediately!" he ordered, black eyes flashing in outrage. "I will not tolerate any more training losses than necessary."

"As you wish, Director," he replied with a mocking bow. However, he let the weave hold for a few seconds longer before letting it dissolve with a sigh; it had been one of the finest he had ever done. All around him, initiates were on their knees, gasping for breath, displaying various shades of blue and green on their faces. One of them retched loudly, and others soon joined him. Sephiroth smiled; he had done well on these. They would serve Shinra to the letter. He wove another weave of Manipulation around them, hiding himself, and he prepared to leave.

And what of he? He considered that question hypothetically, well aware of the dangers that could result from unwitting thought. He himself served because he had nothing better to do. He had no desire for more power, no desire for more wealth. He had taken this life because it was the first to offer itself to him, and he had stayed because he had no preference as to how he spent his time. It concerned him, sometimes, that he should not have a goal in life, but for the most part, he decided that it didn't matter. He was content, if not satisfied, and unless something changed to make it otherwise, he would not grumble.

Or so he told himself, walking out of the Gym.

* * *

The shivering had begun as soon as he woke up, but the cadet had merely attributed that to not having placed his blankets correctly, or a mishap in the air conditioning last night. However, soon after he had willed himself to rise and get breakfast, the shaking had started, minor and almost imperceptible at first, but mounting inevitably until he found himself on the floor in the hall, twitching like mad. A fellow cadet went to get the base medic, and Cloud could only bow his head in shame. He knew that this was.

Some people tolerated Mako in their body better than others; the first, brief showering was merely to see how one's skin cells reacted the days after. Those with unusually high levels of Mako tolerance were said to feel giddy and lighthearted, as if the noxious gas was acting like a narcotic. Others, those with low levels – like him, Cloud thought bitterly – felt a terrible cold, as if a blizzard raged on the surface of his skin. That, he knew, was from his immune system trying to fight the foreign substance, and while his body was trying to mean well, the only changes it could possibly wreak were for the worse.

He vaguely heard voices talking animatedly over him, but the cold still gripped him, and his brain would not work as he directed it to.

Soon, though, he felt himself being placed on a bed and a sharp pain from a needle entering his arm. He tried to struggle free of it – he _hated_ needles – but his muscles, knotted and tense, would not comply, and then he felt a searing heat spread throughout him, bringing him back into the world. He opened his eyes groggily to see a mane of tangled black hair staring down at him, and he struggled to control his vocal cords correctly as the effects of the Potion sank in.

"Zack...that you?" His voice was pitifully faint, Cloud realized. "I reacted ... badly ... didn't I?"

His trainer – former trainer, he corrected himself, nodded soberly, and Cloud sighed softly, easing himself up in his bed, waving away the medic, who looked on with emotionless eyes, with arms that felt like they were full of lead. The mental pain hadn't come yet. He knew it would. All of his dreams, gone in an instant. Shattered like a mirror, leaving only jagged shards of the image behind.

"So...what's the protocol on this?" He struggled to put conviction behind his words, failing miserably. "When do they kick me out?"

"Oh, come on, Cloud, it's not that bad! A lot of people fail to make SOLDIER their first time, for various reasons." The First-Class didn't mention, of course, that they generally failed on the examination, and that Mako tolerance was set basically from birth. "Anyways, you'll have to visit the Shinra Building laboratory so that they can get the last traces of the Mako out of you, and then you're free to go."

"Right," he responded, voice terse and clipped.

"Look, it's not the end of the world, alright, so stop talking like it is? There are plenty of other opportunities here. You could join the regular army, or apply for the Turks, or be a chef, or a Chocobo jockey, or whatever you want! Midgar is a land of opportunities, remember, and a lot of them don't involve waving swords in peoples' faces!" Zack chided him gently.

But he was not going to become famous in the regular army, and the notoriety of the Turks was something he definitely did not want. And a chef or a Chocobo jockey? If Tifa ever saw his name in the headlines for _that_, he would die of shame. Still, he had to do _something_, if for no other reason to sustain him here. He certainly couldn't afford a trip back to Nibelheim with the meager spending money that the cadets were given.

Getting to his feet unsteadily, he spoke softly, much more in control. "Lead the way. Let's get this over with." The Commander nodded tersely and led off at somewhat less than the usual pace out of respect for Cloud, who forced his tired, aching legs to move forwards, one step at a time. It was hard for mental reasons, too; once he left, he was officially out of the running for entry into SOLDIER. If he could stay behind, he wouldn't be a failure, would he?

Maybe he hadn't gotten into SOLDIER, but he wasn't completely useless, now was he? He could still fight, at least. The army didn't hold as much glamour as the elite ranks of SOLDIER, but Turk training was rumored to have a rather high mortality rate. Much as he would rather not be assigned to some vague backwater to rot, he didn't think catching a few dozen bullets would help his lifespan, either. They continued on their way, both silent.

The compound was close to the Shinra Building, where the last of the new cadets were filing off to their new barracks. They entered the complex, heading for the elevators. Off to one side, Cloud saw the three Turks speaking urgently to one another in hushed tones. As they entered the lift capsule, the redhead – Cloud wasn't sure what his name was – shouted in the leader's tense yet worried face.

"What do you mean, 'It was for the best'! Do you have any idea at all what he's going to be doing to her?"" he exclaimed in tones of outrage.

"Well, what do you suggest I do, then?" the Director replied in tones not much more controlled. "Think with your head, Reno, not your goddamned heart!"

But before they could hear more, the doors slid shut, blocking off all sound as they rose through the dozens of levels in the building.

"What do you suppose that was about?" Cloud ventured timidly. His trainer's face had been set in a light frown ever since he had heard the exchange, but the blond was curious. Turks, _angry_? It seemed a contradiction; they were always cold, ruthless operatives.

"A mission, probably. Reno is disagreeing on grounds of morality, as always." He snorted, though not in humor. "A Turk with morals...who would have thought it possible? Anyways, I'm concerned for him. He's a great guy, but he cares too much, and it might get him hurt some day. You know, Cloud, arguing with the Director is not good for your health, you understand?"

"You talk like you know him well, this Reno."

"Haha, yeah, well, we're pretty alike, really." He obviously meant character-wise; short, stocky Zack with his black tangles looked nothing at all like the lithe, tall Turk with his close-cropped red hair. "We don't like the Company all that much, but we're loyal and we follow our orders. We both have a pretty similar sense of honor, but we're also rather laid-back and carefree, most of the time. Oh, and we both love to go after the girls. How could I forget that?"

The two shared a quiet chuckle at that. For the relatively short time that he had known him, Cloud had already seen far too much of his superior's more wild side. The elevator dinged pleasantly on the 67th floor, and the two of them filed out, entering Hojo's extensive laboratory complex at the north side of the room.

"I really don't like this place," Zack muttered, seemingly to himself. "That guy is a nut."

Cloud nodded solemnly; he had no love of the labs, either, with their sterile, hostile environment, and he certainly had no love of the master there. Zack used his SOLDIER card to enter the premises,

Hojo stood inside a large glass cage in the center of the complex, humming idly as he stood over the sleeping girl on the inside of the cage. Cloud looked again, shocked. He was taking off her clothes! Beside him, he saw Zack's jaw drop; both detested the man on sight. His laboratory coat was stained and dirtied with various substances, some of which Cloud was sure were blood. His skin had an unhealthy pallor and looked like it was too small for his body, stretching over too-thin limbs, but the worst was the eyes. Small and bloodshot, squinting behind those spectacles of his, they examined everything coldly, seeking and probing and testing and breaking, all for what the scientist considered the advancement of his field, not caring how many lives he destroyed in the process. Zack had told him a story once about how Hojo had once made a man scream his every waking hour for a year, just to prove he could. Zack had added in hushed tones that he had even kept the poor fellow sane, but that even he couldn't keep his heart beating in the end.

"Yes?" The scientist had noticed them, directing his gaze at them, and Cloud noted with distaste that even his voice sounded like a scalpel, sharp and keen and eager. "I'm busy with my new specimen, here." He jerked a thumb brusquely at the unconscious figure laying before him.

Zack's brows, which had a moment before shot up in surprise, now furrowed in anger; his voice, though, was calm enough; learning to keep his emotions in check was almost one of the first things a SOLDIER learned. "This cadet needs to have an E13B performed on him. He reacted badly to his first exposure with Mako."

"Very well, but this one," he gestured absentmindedly to the girl, "requires my ministrations yet. Albert!" he called to a nearby assistant. "Take care of the man."

Cloud sighed, "Well, I guess I won't be seeing you, Commander."

"Nah, we'll meet again sometime. I'm sure of it." And with one last, firm handshake, he turned his back and left, shaking his head and muttering darkly.

Letting the assistant lead him off to a tank that looked ironically similar to the first, Cloud let his dreams of SOLDIER die with a bitter sigh, easing himself into the tub, where a solution of warm, relaxing fluids soon began to pour in. A feeling of drowsiness overcame him quickly, and he let his eyes close. He made up his mind to join the army tomorrow. It was the least he could do.

By the time the first scream pierced the air, Cloud Strife was long asleep.

* * *

(A/N: Meh, my first "action" scene... I wasn't completely satisfied with how it came out, but hey, it's just something else for me to work on.

On a related note, I think that the Turks were a lot stronger than they were portrayed to be in the game. I personally thought that they weren't really showing all of their ability, since it seemed apparent that after a while, they didn't really want to continue fighting AVALANCHE. For this fic, they won't be invincible (as we'll see later on), but they aren't weaklings, either.

Sephiroth, too, I think, was just toying with Cloud until the very end, when Cloud surprises Sephiroth (again) with his being able to finally 'defeat him' (cough). I may have overpowered him somewhat, but he isn't going to be omnipotent, either.

Anyways, please take some time and leave a review! I really appreciate them, and they help me to work faster, I find. I myself think my weak points lie on characterization and dialogue, though I've been trying to insert dialogue and shorten up the huge text blocks that you could find in the earlier 2 chapters. Meh.

Until next time, I suppose.)  



	4. Woven of Shadows

A/N: My thanks goes out once more to my reviewers. Haha, otherwise, I wouldn't be up in the early hours of the morning, working on this.

Oh, and it's finally time to welcome our principal antagonists...

This chapter was written to the tune of Nuclear Winter by Bill Brown, for the simple reason that I like the sound of it. No hidden meanings here :P

More thanks go to Ranea for pointing out a mistake I made.

Anyways...

* * *

**Threads of Spirit:****  
Woven of Shadows**

He had been waiting for this moment for years, but now that the hybrid was firmly in his grasp, he saw no need at all to hurry. No, it was better to leave the subject in the dark, with no knowledge of what was about to come, letting their own doubt weaken their resolve before he could even start. Patience was always necessary for this kind of work.

After personally performing the basic examination of the specimen – vital signs and growth normal, no new distinguishing characteristics – he had had her still-unconscious form moved to one of his private examination chambers. It was not a large room – he did not need all that much space for his purposes – and neither was it in any way reminiscent of a stereotypical dungeon, like some preferred for these activities. The surfaces were all gleaming white-and-gray polymers, bright and sleek and sterile, the four recessed lights providing excellent illumination. The specimen was laid out and properly restrained on the steel table, with snugly fitting bands of neo-steel alloy attached to her wrists, ankles, and neck. Hojo couldn't help but marvel that, after all of this time, he finally had a living Cetra, albeit hybrid, to work with. Nine years had been long enough. Patience was everything, but he would not wait any longer. He could not wait any longer.

The specimen's respiration cycle was shallow and slow from the mild tranquilizer he had administered to her, and while Hojo would normally have waited for the drug's effects to wear off before beginning, he was feeling impatient, and non-lethal side effects weren't going to trouble him here. Taking a pre-filled syringe from the smaller table to the side, he rolled up the sleeve of the specimen's dress – her clothing had been replaced after the basic examination – and found a suitable area on the left brachial artery, slowly injecting the Hyper directly into her bloodstream. The Professor would have preferred to work without the obstructions of clothing, but his goal here was not the usual one, and it would be more injurious to her dignity if he waited until the specimen had regained consciousness. Hojo cared nothing for such things himself and had not cared for years, but his orders had been clear, if odd.

As the drug traveled through her system into the pulmonary organs, the specimen's limbs began to shake and then move spastically, but the restraints were more than strong enough to hold her. Her breathing became rapid, but not dangerously so, and her eyes – a most intriguing shade, the Professor had noted – shot open as she attempted to rise into a sitting position. The band of metal at her neck prevented that action, of course, and the specimen winced in pain as the edges of the restraint dug deeply into her throat.

"What is this? What are you going to do to me?" the specimen asked in tones of insistence, odd for someone in her position. Her voice was strong, yet, without any trace of fear. That was good; the Professor enjoyed working on the ones who thought themselves strong of will. Breaking the weak was simply too easy.

Ignoring the noise from the specimen, he picked up a long-edged scalpel from his assorted instruments and calculated the distances necessary, his long years of experience aiding him. The Professor made a multitude of precise, almost delicate, cuts, and the specimen's clothing fell away from her body. Placing the useless swathes of fabric into a small gray incinerator in the corner of the room, he replaced the scalpel and took a tiny green orb, the size of a small marble, from it's holding case, along with a larger yellow Materia.

"What... what are you doing?" the question had an edge to it this time, a thin tinge of apprehension. Hojo merely smiled; it was good if that started early. Fear was an excellent weapon; it was something, he had noted with glee, that the Vice President was beginning to understand. It would be most enjoyable to serve under him.

Brushing the specimen's cheek with his hand – physical contact was a must for something like this – he was pleased to see that she didn't flinch from his touch. Not a weakling, this one. Staring intently past her eyes into her skull, he delved flows of the Sense Materia into her brain, locating the areas that processed messages of pain. It was difficult to work with something you could not see, but the Professor had had long years of experience in this. The specimen's eyes watched him nervously, uncertain and afraid.

Ah, there they were. The mechanisms of a Cetran brain, while similar to humans', were not quite the same, and as a hybrid, locating the specimen's medulla had taken him a bit longer than usual. It didn't matter; he had all the time in the world now. Channeling the tiniest flow he could manage through the Fire Materia – it was the smallest yet that he had managed to find, and he was still searching – he directed the energy, so insignificant as to be barely there, into the specimen's receptors.

One had to be careful with this. Too large of a flow could kill in moments, but it was quite remarkable to the Professor as to how much the system could take, so long as one began with the lightest touches and fed it in finely increasing amounts. It was almost, Hojo thought wryly, like coaxing a new lover, hesitant and unwilling, though the similarities stopped there. Maintaining the weave, he settled back to watch the progressions. One could afford to have a little patience in this.

The specimen looked surprised and shook her head, as if she thought that she could ward off the pain. Soon, though, she realized she could not – Hojo appreciated her intelligence – and instead directed a stare, bold and defiant, towards him. Hojo would have laughed, except that he knew that it would have caused his weave, dynamic as it was, to alter, possibly killing her. He could not have that, yet. Patience.

It was ironic that he would have to be the one to do this. His was a line that went back nearly a thousand years, even before the nation had been called Wutai. Healers in the traditional sense, using herbs and plants at first and Materia later, his ancestors had been whisked around the Empire, and later the world, respected for their abilities to aid the sick and the injured.

He himself had been acclaimed, famed, and given honors everywhere he went. He had been able to cure any illness, heal any wound, and take people from the brink of death, when everyone else said there was nothing more to be done. For years, no one in all of Wutai had died of anything except old age, and he had gnashed his teeth even at that.

And then Lord Godo had had him summoned him to the capital one day, giving him what he had called a choice: to be tried and executed, or to be exiled and cast out from the Healers, never to know his pleasures again, and to see all of his honor and fame evaporate before him like mist before the sun. Godo had expected him to accept exile, for the Lord of Wutai was a rational, honorable man, and that was the rational, honorable choice. No one had thought that he would flee. And thus had begun his career with Shinra, after the Company faked had his death and granted him a new identity. _They_ cared nothing for how he spent his time, so long as their projects were completed and their deadlines met. Which meant that he had a lot of free time, indeed.

The specimen was again trying to move against her bonds, her face drawn and pale as she worked her jaw soundlessly. Her eyes seemed to be widening, nostrils flaring as she struggled to breathe, and beads of sweat began to run down her pale body. Every so often a soft moan or a grunt would escape her lips, and Hojo smiled behind his entirely unnecessary surgical mask. It would begin soon, now. Patience.

He had been angry then, jealous of those who could not do as he did, and he reflected distantly that perhaps there had always been something inside him that yearned for this release as he commenced his healing sessions. Had anyone among those he saved from death ever complained about the tax he exacted in return? And what of the others whom he had dealt with? Wutai had never been free of corruption, and there had always been a ready supply of those who deserved to suffer at _somebody's_ hand. What did it matter if he was the one to punish them? The Imperial Court and its ridiculous nonsense about legalities and rights... he easily deserved the right to do as he did; no, he had _earned_ the right! He was infinitely more valuable, more useful to Wutai than all those who had entertained him with their screams combined! And no... in anger and spite, Godo and the Imperial Court had sought to pull _him_ down!

Well, he had had his revenge. A number of the Imperial Court had been captured during the war, and Sephiroth – the ignorant fool – had had no qualms in giving them to him. With enough time, he could shatter the hardest and bend the strongest, sculpting them and molding them to whatever design he desired. While the process took much longer than Manipulation, Hojo found it infinitely more enjoyable, and he did not think even Sephiroth himself could undo the changes that he wrought. Manipulation could be defeated, and it had its limits. Those he had worked on, though... on their knees they had begged him to let them serve, and all had gratefully worked for him obediently until their dying breath. Each time the President had been full of glee, proclaiming to the world as another Lesser Lord of the Empire knelt before Shinra, but Hojo hadn't cared so much for that. No, he took his joy in the look on their faces when they saw him, even years later. How they went pale and hurried to assure him that they remained faithful to what he had made of them.

The first sob burst out of the specimen and was stifled quickly, and the Professor waited neutrally, waiting for the hybrid's resistance to snap. Haste was never necessary here, as too much haste could spoil everything. A corpse would not serve him; seconds trickled away. More sobbing came forth, overwhelming the specimen's efforts to subdue it, growing louder and louder as the wonderful sounds reverberated in the small chamber. Hojo waited. The cries swelled to a howl; the specimen glistened with dripping sweat as her head flung from side to send, sending her lank hair flailing. She jerked helplessly, convulsive flutters overtaking her in her bonds. _Now_, Hojo thought. His patience had been rewarded. Full-throated, ear-piercing shrieks sounded until breath was gone and began as soon as lungs could be filled. Her wide green eyes saw nothing, and they seemed to be glazing over. Time to begin.

Hojo smiled contemptuously, stopping the weave of Fire with an abrupt snap, but the specimen continued screaming for minutes before her cries subdued into soft, ragged panting. Her limbs continued to shake – that was one of the few aftereffects of this, and it would be months, if not years, before it truly ended.

"Do you still defy me?" he asked sharply. The actual question did not matter so much, so long as it was one the specimen could answer. It was often enjoyable to continue with the current one until they pleaded to prove that they no longer did.

Still shuddering, the specimen regarded him warily with unfocused, heavily lidded eyes. Licking her lips uneasily, she coughed softly, finally muttering hoarsely, "No..."

Mission or not, he could be allowed some fun, could he not? "I don't believe you." Taking a hold of her forehead in a harsh grip, he resumed the flows, starting at a moderately high level. The body adapted remarkably well to this; soon, he would not have to wait at all.

The specimen was intelligent; she knew what was happening, and where this was going to lead. While she could still muster breath, she pleaded softly, albeit with conviction. "No, no, please, no!"

Her cries went unheeded, and before long, her spine was arched once more, and the screams told hold of her. Hojo laughed at the sight of her, cutting off the flows once more. What a beautiful sound it was, that of pure anguish and unbearable torment. Throughout his life, he had heard so many of them, in every timbre and pitch and magnitude imaginable. This one's, though, sounded the sweetest to his ears; they were so raw, so unbridled, and so pure. She was regaining her breath once more, now, and Hojo thought that she was mumbling something, leaning towards her to listen. The words of his subjects could be so amusing at times like these.

"Mom, please... make it go away, make it stop... no more, please, no more..." To Hojo, she sounded so puny, so weak, begging like this. It hadn't even been half an hour yet!

"Your mother was stronger than you ever were, hybrid! _She_ lasted over a month before begging like you do, now, after barely a quarter of an hour..." He watched the tears that began to stream down her face; she was ashamed of her weakness. Good, more vulnerability to work with. "You are a worthless, contemptible shadow of your kind, hybrid! Now. Do you still defy me?"

The specimen wasted no time in replying, desperate and pleading, "No! I'll... I'll do whatever you want... just, please, make the pain stop..." The aftershocks that still ran through her peaked then to elicit another moan, and Hojo realized with amusement that even these lesser sensations were probably worse than anything she had ever experienced before today. What a weakling.

Normally, this would be where he asked the questions that needed answering, but in this strange case, he had none, so he remained silent, considering how to proceed. The 'trick', if one could call it that, would be finding something that the specimen was _capable_ of doing, but not _willing_, and pressing until that changed. The more reluctant they were about it, the better. To break someone, really _break_ him or her, one had to make them want to do anything to escape the pain, anything at all.

The Professor studied the specimen gasping for breath before him. He simply didn't know enough about her, her weaknesses, or her fears. Then he looked at her, realizing something so obvious as to evade his notice. And, he admitted to himself wryly, it was hardly the kind of weakness he had been thinking of. He remembered the exact terms of his orders, and he decided it would do. _Break her, and shatter her will completely_._ Crush her spirit with pain and humiliation_.

Seizing the specimen's hair and lowering his head to her ear, he whispered lasciviously. So what if it was crude? If this mad scheme worked – he hadn't been fully briefed in on the details yet – he would have nothing to worry about.

Watching the specimen stiffen in fear, he smiled inwardly; he had guessed correctly. He didn't like to do that at all – any risks besides the most carefully plotted and calculated were to be avoided – but it seemed that he had found something to work with, here. The hybrid did not hesitate in her reply.

"No! Anything but that... anything!" Out of breath as she was, Hojo was surprised that she could muster such vehemence in her statement. Well, in any case, this was a starting point.

Using a finger to caress her neck, he laughed wickedly and spoke in the same tone. "Anything? Anything encompasses many things... where shall we begin?" It was easier, now that he had decided on his course of action. Perhaps, he thought with a faint smile, he might even enjoy it.

* * *

The silence seemed more pronounced, if anything, Baracs noticed. Before, at least the Planet provided a variety of background noises, birdsong and the rush of flowing water, soothing and calming. Now, as if it sensed the grave, ominous danger facing it, it remained deathly still and completely quiet. The only sounds to be heard were that of a woman's weeping, and the Planet respected that, too; the dark forest they sat in swallowed the reverberations almost immediately, leaving them in relative peace and darkness; the late afternoon sunlight would not penetrate here through the foliage. Baracs did not like to be disturbed when he did his planning, and public displays of emotion were quite harming to his concentration. 

The Circle of Elders had traveled here – or, rather, the environment had blurred and changed around them – and had sat on a circle of well-worn and comfortable oak tree stumps. They had been discussing their plans three hours ago when Ifalna had collapsed, falling from her seat, moaning and gibbering in obvious pain. That had since faded, but the Eldest still appeared in great pain, head down and shielding the sight of her tears, as was their custom. Now, only the two of them were here; the rest had returned to their Promised Lands for rest, as maintaining a presence in another Cetra's Promised Land was highly taxing. It was one reason why post mortem socialization between Cetra was so rare.

He thought that he knew what had happened – while the other Elders could only listen in on Aeris' thoughts if they chose to do so, and with remarkable difficulties, Ifalna was forced to maintain a constant link with her daughter, lest they all lose access and have to 'find' her among the myriad of souls on the Planet. And yes, while Aeris' half-Cetran mind provided a beacon, it was still like searching for one grain of red sand in a pile of yellow, and each grain feeling like a massive boulder in weight. It could have been weeks, or months even, before they could re-forge the connection. And so, there hadn't really been much of a choice, and since they had decided to go with this, it was only practical to get as much use out of it as possible. Kindness and sympathy would have to wait, for now.

"What is happening now, Ifalna?" Baracs tried to make his voice as gentle as possible, but his vocal cords had always been instilled with a sense of roughness since his birth, well over nineteen hundred years ago.

Without raising her head, the normally regal woman mumbled a hushed response. "He... he is doing terrible things to her... oh, Light save us..." Apparently, she saw no need to elaborate. "My darling is going to... break, I fear, and soon."

Baracs scowled darkly; this was not going well, at all. While at least Aeris had not found her way to the spawn – it was hard to think of that as "good news", but it was – she would not be of much use to the plan in the condition that her ordeal would inevitably leave her in.

"That would be most adverse to the plan, indeed... I have miscalculated greatly, it seems." His voice carried a tinge of sadness.

That statement could have summed up most of his adult life, such as it were. Raised in an era where the Calamity had destroyed over half of the Cetran population, he had been one of the first to use his position as Elder to call for active reprisal instead of passive resistance. Eventually, as they had lost more and more territory, as the Calamity struck down more and more of the Planet's defenses in its own mad quest, his way had gained more adherents.

His plan then had been the creation of the Weapons, for the Cetra themselves were but the weakest of warriors when compared to the likes of the Calamity and its ilk. For years they had toiled, struggling to maintain what territory they could, as Jenova struck down their cities one by one, at her leisure. And so, while the Planet had supplied the raw materials, they had worked to imbue stone and steel with all of their accumulated knowledge and strength. It seemed to him that they had created something magnificent in its power, and that they could at last claim victory.

But he had failed, as the Calamity knew that he would fail, in underestimating the powers of deception that Jenova wielded so skillfully and well, the powers that it had used ever since it first appeared amongst the Cetra. Using its illusions to mask its presence, it had infiltrated their production lines and taken the Weapons, trapping them in the walls of Materia at the Knowlespole where it had first landed. By all estimations, they would have been long dead before the Weapons could be re-taken and "thawed out", and so he had come up with another plan... if one could call it that.

Those Cetra who had not yet been taken by the virus – a terribly small number, indeed, no more than a thousand – had decided to send the strongest of their number to confront Jenova while the rest took as much as they could of their culture with them and fled to the human settlements. And once more he had let his pride overtake his reason, his lust for fame rise over his rationality. He had insisted vehemently on leading those sent to defeat Jenova, believing her to be physically weak to have to have had hidden in lies, and for that, he had died with Jenova's counterstroke, dead when he needn't have been dead, along with all of the others who had set out to destroy the Calamity.

It was such a shame. Without the strong amongst them to keep their spirits from falling into despair, many of those Cetra who had been sent to seek shelter from the humans lost faith in the Planet and their way of life. Taken by the bleakness of the Dark Years, some had tried to forget whom they were, intermarrying with humanity, while others simply laid down and died, unable or unwilling to go on. Those few family lines that remained faithful to the Planet had dwindled in number, until only one daughter had been left, Ifalna, who had been given the title of Eldest for her sacrifices. She was truly the last of the Cetra, for Aeris was no more than a remnant, however many Cetran traits she showed. Ifalna's angered voice intruded on his thoughts, and he shook his head sadly at the thought of so much that had been lost.

"Is that all you care about? You and your plan... do I have to remind you that is my _daughter_ you're trying to use as a sacrificial lamb?" Ifalna shouted at him, rising and leaving her tear-stained face bare to him, though she didn't seem to care. Walking towards Baracs, her voice slowly rose in pitch and intensity. "Do I have to remind you that for _your_ plan, _I'm_ the one who has to watch her, _feel_ her being hurt out of her very senses? How can you even speak so calmly when something like this is happening to the last living Cetra?"

Baracs sighed, shaking his head, the half-braid whipping in a slight breeze. Ifalna could be so rash, sometimes. "You must realize not only your daughter is at risk here, Ifalna. By the Tree and the People, if we do not succeed here, the Planet itself is doomed! Surely Aeris is not so important when stacked against the greater possibility!"

Especially with the nature of his proposed action, the Elders _had_ to acknowledge that the fate of the last living being with any Cetran blood was not as vital as the fate of the Planet. Before, they had agreed, if hesitantly. Now, he thought he might just have to convince them again. Truly, he did not like that it had to come down to this, but when one had but one option, one took it with no regrets.

Seething, Ifalna very deliberately raised her right hand and slapped him across the face. He flinched from the strike, not because of physical pain, but because of the cultural implications. "You speak to me of risk, of importance? Let me explain something to you in the simplest terms possible. Hold the link with me for a minute, and you'll see exactly what I mean. Half a minute."

Baracs looked at her with a dark expression – touching him, indeed! – but at last he nodded tersely. If she was willing to let him enter her mind, this had to be important. "So be it, Ifalna. Let us see what this fuss is all about."

He stared intently into her eyes, glistening and red from crying. With barely any hesitation, he felt his vision going from the visual into the subconscious; the "real world" faded into a misty gray at the very edges of his peripheral vision. Perusing through the woman's mind and taking care as to not pry where he was unwanted, the Elder quickly located the part that held Ifalna's link with Aeris, touching it subtly, lightly with his thoughts, barely resting on it at all. The effect was immediate.

Pain. It surged through him, filling every crevice and pore with burning and throbbing that overwhelmed his control immediately. Severing the link by instinct, he readjusted into the Promised Land, finding that he had toppled from his seat. His limbs were tingling, too, like the brief memory of what he had just experienced. Above him, Ifalna looked on with a combination of challenge and resolve.

Righting himself on the stump, he stared at her with slightly wider gray eyes. "What... _was_ that?"

"That was a barest hint of what my daughter has been going through for the last four hours or more, and you barely touched upon the it for an instant. And that was only through my link, which was dulled already. Now do you understand? You only felt a thousandth of what she is, and I a hundredth, and look what is happening to us." Ifalna glared at her counterpart.

"I suppose you are right, but there is nothing we can do about it!" Exasperation and rage tinged his voice, and he brought a fist down hard on the stump. _All of my plans... if she is lost, we will fail, and the Planet will die. We will die._ It was hardly a reassuring thought.

"From here, I agree." In bizarre contrast, Ifalna's words now held an edge of what he could only call satisfaction. In fact, a she seemed to be smiling! Baracs chided himself for obviously imagining things at this dark hour.

"What do you mean, 'from here'? There is nowhere else we can operate from!" He could not stop himself from snapping at her angrily. This was not the time for foolish thoughts and meaningless considerations!

"I would have thought so, too, but I have been conferring with the Planet." Ifalna's smile widened. "She says otherwise." Then she explained her plan, and Baracs could not help but staring at her in unbelieving surprise.

"I see." He could not help laughing. It would certainly be a fitting end to it all.

* * *

The room was spacious and airy, and a light classical piece was being played softly on the music box. The open door showed the last light of the sun as it sank below the horizon, bathing the chamber with radiant light. The floor and columns were hewn redstone, but both were smoothed and worn, and the overall effect was quite charming. The organizer reminded himself to thank Bugenhagen for letting him use the Elder's private chambers. 

This meeting had been absurdly difficult to organize, Harlan thought with a scowl and a slight cough. Any gathering of the people in this room would have occasioned comment, but he had fed the right information to the right people, and Shinra thought it merely to be a trade gathering that they hadn't been invited to. Luckily, they hadn't probed too deeply into his façade, and so the first phase was ready to begin. He hoped that he had done his research correctly.

They were a disparate lot, he noted, but that was to be expected. There were so many things to be done, and so little time to take care of it all, as all of these men knew. The last one entered the chamber, and he decided it was time to tell them. Using his battered wooden cane, he slowly shuffled up to a carved wooden block that served as a podium and began speaking in a hoarse voice, scratchy from age and punctuated by occasional coughing.

"Good evening. You may have wondered why I have called you here today, and I am glad that all of you have respected my summons. Please let me speak my piece." He bowed slightly, then, as to equals. "My name is Harlan Andrax, and I've been studying here in Cosmo Canyon for the past few dozen years on Planet Life. As I'm sure you have noticed, with the advent of the Mako Reactor, overall species have dropped drastically, noting increases only in monster population size and ferocity.

"This is wrong; Shinra should not have the express rights to drain away the benevolent life energy of the planet in order to further their own narrow, selfish interests. All of you have reason to dislike Shinra, and together, we can do something about it instead of sitting on our heels and let Shinra grow stronger and stronger, as the planet and we grow weaker and weaker." He paused to lean on the podium as a particularly painful series of coughing gripped him. The Light damn his sickness. He grasped at his canteen and drank deeply from it before continuing.

"You, Lord Yukimura Godo, have suffered a great humiliation at the hands of Shinra. Your nation, once strong, now lies in ruins, your population weakened, and your pride vanquished. Yet you are angry still. You have surrendered, but you are not yet defeated. Join with me, and Wutai will never be troubled again Your culture will not be repressed, your beliefs will not be ridiculed, and your voice will never go unheard. This I do swear.

"You, Cid Highwind, have had your hopes dashed, your dreams squandered, and your opinions disregarded. You served loyally and well, and Shinra turned its back on you and your people immediately after your usefulness to them has ended. Yet your will is still strong, and your hopes and dreams soar on. Join with me, and all ventures of science will be equally pursued with equal dedication and motivation, not only those which cause harm, whether to man or to the planet. You will never be betrayed, and you will never be ignored. This I do swear.

"You, Wedge Szandara, lead the freedom fighters of Fort Condor in your daily struggles with Shinra, but your sponsors are becoming unresponsive, and your funds will not last you forever. Continue fighting alone, and a day will come, in one month or one year or ten, when Shinra triumphs over you. Join with me, and we will present a united front against Shinra that _will_ prevail. You will no longer have to worry for your lives every waking hour, and hope that you are not ambushed when you go to sleep. You will be able to live your lives as you wish to, on terms set by yourself. This I do swear.

"And you, Dyne Pahlavi, face a rising tide of those who wish to see the end of coal as a power source, the end of your career. Shinra has given you the promise of Mako, the promise of power, but yet we all know promises given by Shinra always have a pitfall. Decline, and watch your prosperity fade. Accept, and wait for the noose to tighten. Your time for a decision is running out, but you still have some time yet. Join with me, and you will not need to fear those who speak against you; you will be able to argue and debate knowing that there is no one to bind or restrict you. You will no longer face the rampant censorship and propaganda that so corrupts the hearts and minds of men. Their ideals will be their own, and their conclusions made only through their own consensus. This I do swear.

"Alone we are scattered and weak, unable to face Shinra as it defeats us one by one with ease. If we do not act soon, there will be no one to defeat them. Please, consider my proposal."

Throughout his little speech, he had carefully watched and gauged their reactions – he had learned a lot about observation through spending years in the canyon lands, looking for things that did not want to be seen. The four of them had paid him attention, which was excellent – after all, he was a relative nobody, and they were all powerful leaders; if they chose to, they could simply ignore him and leave. He thought he detected a general sense of anger and frustration within them all, but these were men trained in the hiding of emotion and expression.

Godo had seemed the one most susceptible to it, hardly befitting his role as a ruler, but he had been humiliated the most recently, and with the greatest loss. Highwind had merely appeared disgruntled and bitter, crushing his cigarette underneath a stained boot when Harlan had addressed him; the philosopher thought it very likely that he had been this way, glowering and irritated, ever since his budget had been cut virtually to zero. Szandara had given him a curt smile, but his piercing eyes had spent just as much time examining the other three as they had him, and the smile did not look pleased. Clearly, this was one who possibly saw everyone as an enemy. Harlan mentally sighed; those could be troublesome to deal with. Lastly, Pahlavi had strangely shown the least emotion at all, though he was clearly the least sophisticated of the four. Leaning against the room's wall and idly picking at his dirt-embedded fingers, it could have seemed as if he had not cared at all. However, once or twice, Harlan had seen those eyes of his, stormy gray, staring right at him, and nothing about that gaze was indolent.

As he stopped speaking, Pahlavi of all people was the first to respond, his voice like a pickaxe chiseling through bedrock stone. "Well, I'm outa here if that's all you had to say. Corel ain't runnin' by itself, damn it. He turned to leave, the others looking at him and then Harlan with badly concealed hesitation and apprehension. This was his first test.

Luckily, it was one that he had prepared for. "Go. Go, and see what becomes of your livelihood and your life within the next half-dozen years. Once Shinra has firmly entrenched itself, it will never let go. Will they let you remain as a subservient lapdog, or will you die tragically in a fatal accident, along with most of your supporters?" Though the words were harsh enough, Harlan's tone was gentle. "You have nothing to gain with passivity, and everything to gain with action and change."

Dyne flinched as if struck, lip curling back in derision. "Over my dead body! The people of Corel will get killed without me to lead them, and you're wrong if you think I'll ever let them Shinra scum sink their teeth into my hometown!" The miner snarled, hand grasping at his side for a weapon that he had been cordially asked not to bring today.

"It may well come down to that, then. Leave then, and sink in whatever delusions you may choose. When despair overcomes you as the grasp of Shinra tightens on your throat, think of what you could have done instead, and think of how success was possible, if only you had not ignored it." A dangerous gleam had appeared in Dyne's eyes. Harlan did not think that the man would go so far as to strike him, not with the other three, but he tightened his grasp around his cane in any case. It was far stronger than it looked, and it could hold five of his accumulated Materia, if weakly.

Fortunately, Godo interrupted before it could escalate further. "You speak of defeating Shinra, Mister Andrax. But I know, just as I am certain you know, that Shinra's might is great, and we are all weak. To go against them would be like a mere wolf chasing a Behemoth for all the good we could do." His voice was lilting and mellifluous, like the tolling of a deep bronze gong. "I agree with your ideals and your motives, but I am uncertain of how you plan to accomplish this. Of the five of us, my military might is strongest, but our army is now a mere fraction of the size it used to be, and even in its height, Shinra outnumbered it. How, Mister Andrax, do you propose that we fight them, then?"

Excellent. This was what he had been hoping for. "When I was young, I once visited Midgar. An old friend of mine, an officer in Shinra's army, had taken me from Junon to the city. Shinra had been dealing with insurgents then, and as we came upon a scene in the countryside, he turned off the vehicle and gestured to me to watch and learn of the capabilities of insurgents.

"A tiger – a powerful cat that is extinct now, sadly – had made a kill on the grasslands and was settling down to feed. Approaching it, though, had been a pack of hounds, all smaller, inferior animals. The tiger had been old, slowed and dulled by age, but still formidable even so, seeking to protect itself and its kill. One on one, it could have easily taken the lesser dogs, but they had not been so stupid. Spreading out around the tiger, they surrounded it quickly. The one directly behind the tiger would rush in and nip at the cat's hindquarters, and when the tiger would turn and roar, the hound would retreat, and another would attack the tiger's rear.

"Soon, it was unable to feed, and unable to protect itself, it had no choice but to retreat, leaving the hounds to gloat and take the meal for its own. The tiger would age and grow hungry and weaken, and soon it would not be able to stop an attack on its own flesh. Eventually, the hounds would kill them all, so long as the tigers insisted on remaining solitary.

"And so it would be with us. The weakness in all bureaucracies is that they are unable to direct their targets quietly, and in many places. Fight them openly and outright, and one will lose. Fight them with subtleness and caution, and one can do much damage, indeed. Indeed, Godo, your Anjian forces attempted to implement this doctrine with their deep raids, but they failed to take it to its logical conclusion."

Szandara looked at him with brief appraisal in his stormy gray eyes, but he then settled back in his danger-scanning mode. "You would have us fight completely on the offensive then, striking at Midgar and Junon and Gongaga internally, I suppose." The fighter reached for his leather hip flask, waiting for the answer.

Harlan nodded, further clarifying. "Infrastructure and morale damage will be our objectives. The only way to defeat Shinra is to force them to lose the peoples' favor. Much of that favor comes solely through the presence of convenient Mako energy. If we were to remove that energy, the masses might accomplish much of our work for us. Shinra would of course attempt to blame us, but the disgruntlement would one day outweigh the fear."

"And if the Reactors are destroyed, the Planet is harmed less grievously." Godo added quietly, stroking his luxuriantly oiled beard and grinning fiercely. "Two skyhawks for one Bolt, is it not? Mister Andrax, you have thought your proposal through quite well." Harlan made a note to watch him carefully in the future. Yukimura Godo was not someone to be underestimated, or trifled with.

There was a brief silence then, as they considered. At least, none were attempting to leave. That was good. _Godo and Szandara will be the more easily convinced, but I need the other two just as much, if not more, or all of us are doomed. They will join us, or die. We would all die. _He chided himself for the pessimism, but he acknowledged that it was still possible, at this stage.

The pilot, Highwind, broke the silence, speaking in his decidedly rough manner. "Alright, so we all hate those leeching backstabbers at Shinra. Blood and ashes, it's blindingly obvious that you want each of us to give over and help, or else you wouldn't have invited us over for this lovely chat. But what about you, _Mister Andrax_?" Godo winced, which Highwind didn't seem to notice. "By Hades, You're just some doddering relic with a goddamned walking stick! What good are you against Shinra?" Having lit another cigarette, he blew a smoke ring to emphasize his statement.

Harlan remained silent for a time – not at the words; he had heard harsher – but because he wasn't sure whether or not to reveal a part of him this early. "Sometimes, Mister Highwind, I almost feel as if the Planet is... speaking to me."

Pahlavi burst out laughing, broad shoulders shaking in unrestricted mirth. "Oh, great joke ya got there! So, what does the 'Planet' tell ya? Shinra's military access codes, or when they're gonna raise the Mako rates? Add in some stock options too, hmm?"

Harlan frowned briefly, taking a sip from his Potion-water solution, but continued as if uninterrupted. "Perhaps there is enough Cetran blood flowing through me, or it is a resurgence of old traits, but it speaks, and it speaks true. When the Planet says that it is certain of something, it is never incorrect."

"So you've got the whole bloody Planet acting as your flaming _personal fortune teller_ now? Give me a goddamned break!" Cid retorted with a snort.

"I must admit, Mister Andrax, that this is not entirely easy to believe..." Godo added slowly, his eyes not quite accusing.

Harlan almost sighed, refraining only because it would serve nothing and make him out to be weaker than he was. _Why must all the good, useful allies be so hard to deal with?_ He knew it was a foolish question, but part of him, the one that wanted to see some sense of accomplishment before he passed away, still seemed irascible no matter his best efforts. Time to play another face card... one that he had meant to save for a much later date, when he could be sure that they were bound to him so tightly as to be unable to leave. More risks to be taken, then... he hated risks.

"Discounting that, and I see no reason for it to be discounted, mind you, I have also discovered and developed several rather interesting viral structures over the years. They could be of use, provided a suitable delivery mechanism," he stated in a flat monotone. Things like this were best not done, but for the sake of the Planet... Light, the coming months would see acts as dark as moonless midnight, but they _had_ to be done.

"So you want my rockets." Highwind replied in very much the same neutral voice. Harlan couldn't help but be surprised – so the pilot wasn't a fool, after all, despite all of his sullenness and cursing. Well, one did not get to the rank of Senior Aviation Technician without _some_ intelligence, he supposed.

Harlan replied with a cautious half-smile. "If you'll let me use them, that is. If not, it would hamper my efforts greatly." He hoped that he had done his research correctly, and that they would react as he had planned. If not, this could all turn to disaster.

"'Hinder my efforts'! Ya talk like killin' a few million unlucky souls is a decent thing. Hell, ya ain't that much better than Shinra themselves!" That was Dyne, and Harlan could barely stop a chuckle. Excellent.

"Arm for an arm, Mister Pahlavi. I'm sure you've heard the saying before. Besides, I only plan on attacking their military, not civilians, if I can help it. At the very least, I can promise that the focal points will be purely military." Now, time to call the draw. "Mister Szandara, you've been fairly quiet. Tell me, what is your opinion?" If he had gambled wrong, the answer here could still ruin him. He hoped to the Light that that rumor he had picked off the street fourteen years ago was true.

The squat man frowned, clearly uneasy with the topic. "Nearly two dozen years ago, before Wutai, Shinra launched a few bacterial warheads in Fort Condor... they had taken a specimen from the jungles of Nibelheim, fortified it with cancerous genes, and designed it for aerosol transmission. Our casualties were horrendous... men, women, children; biological weapons are merciless." He shook his head wistfully, and Harlan couldn't help letting a somewhat more sincere smile come to his face. The gamble had worked.

"However, the winds turned the next day, and the disease spread back into their camps, taking more lives and killing several of their senior commanders. Until very recently, that was the last time they used strategic biological weapons, to the best of my knowledge. Of course, in the ending phases of the Wutai War, they restored their bio-war program under Tideki Hojo, but their samples were never used seriously. However, we still think at Fort Condor that it's very likely that in the near future, we'll have to face their 'special' weapons again."

Highwind frowned slightly, replying with a contemplative voice that seemed odd until you remembered that this man had once held a doctorate in philosophy. When he was serious, his cursing lowered dramatically, too, which Harlan appreciated. "Well, if that's really true," Szandara shot him a glance, "then I suppose I can see where you're coming from, Andrax. At least you're only planning on targeting the army, too. Hmm... I can't say I entirely approve of your means, but I'm agreeing with your views... for now. I suppose you could say I'm with you."

Excellent. One more to go. Now if only young Pahlavi – Andrax was seventy-two, himself – would be more amenable... "I thank you wholeheartedly for your cooperation. The new dawn will not see our actions in vain." He replied to Highwind.

The stubborn miner now turned to address him. "Look, I think I can see where Godo and Szandara fit into this – soldiers, weapons, and experience, I guess – and I suppose Highwind does too, with your talk of firing rockets at them, but where the heck do _I_ go?"

Ugh. Why couldn't _he_ have a doctorate? It would make things so much simpler... but Harlan knew he couldn't be condescending. This man had what was quite possibly the greatest role in the plan

"As we destroy the Mako Reactors, the people will need a new source of energy to sustain them, or much of the world will fall into chaos to degenerate back into the Times of Crisis. I cannot allow that, if it is possible to do otherwise. If you joined us and raised coal production suitably, the problem would be somewhat ameliorated until another solution could be found." There was another aspect to it, too, but Harlan did not want to reveal that just yet. This kind of individual could ruin the best of plans, but he thought the ones he had laid out now would do.

"Shinra would kill us all if it realized we were raising production!" Pahlavi retorted, earning a tired sigh from Godo. Szandara directed a raised eyebrow at the miner.

"At first, when we target Gongaga, there is no need to expand operations. Simply refine more and place it on the market when the time is right. I know you have the capability to do that." Or so his friend had told him, but he trusted young Wallace to tell the truth. "After we begin striking Midgar and Junon in earnest, they will have other things to worry about than your actions. Then, once they are focused on their own problems, you can expand as necessary without fear of reprisal." Harlan stated patiently, but not too condescendingly. He could not afford to push away anyone who might be a potential ally.

Pahlavi remained silent, but he nodded once and sunk back to lean against the wall again. That one, Harlan mused, would never be enthusiastic in supporting anything but his own interests. Much like himself, he thought, though _his_ ideals were much greater and far more pure than mere capitalistic greed. What could be more important than the Planet?

"Your plan of going against Shinra seems fair enough in practice, but there is one point that I would like you to explain." Szandara stated to fill the silence. "If we're able to disable Shinra's regular army through your strategy, what of SOLDIER? Through what I've heard, the Mako in their cells protects them from illness. If it would ever come down to head-on combat, I'd have to say that SOLDIER alone could probably defeat any force we could realistically field."

Highwind added, "Yeah, I've bloody seen SOLDIER in action, and I'm not afraid of saying that they seriously scared the hell out of me." Honesty was good. It showed where and how one could be struck down later, if necessary. Harlan filed that tidbit away with all of the others he had taken already from the meeting.

Harlan chuckled softly at that. These were no fools – they were saving the most blatantly obvious challenge for the end, using these questions to test his hypothesis and character. Well, he could hardly blame them for it. In a similar situation, he would do exactly the same thing.

"Such is the nature of my samples. They will overwhelm the ordinary human's immune system with ease and rapidly spread through the bloodstream, systematically attacking the entire body. Frank symptoms, you see, appear a week after the initial exposure." All but Pahlavi inclined their heads at that – it would spread freely for a full week before Shinra realized that something was wrong, and by that time, it would be too late, with several generations of contamination. "The lethality rate, in my tests, is relatively low, but the nature of the symptoms are extremely incapacitating. Symptoms," he added, "last for several months to a year." It was just about as perfect as it could reasonably be, in that respect.

"You did not answer Mister Szandara's question." Godo was quick to note. "However, I am glad to hear that your chosen means are as they are."

"Ah, but I have... You see, when a SOLDIER-cadet is first exposed to Mako, the body generates antibodies, just as if the substance were a bacterium or a virus. A large factor in acceptance into SOLDIER is how the body reacts to those antibodies."

"And how do you know all of this?" Szandara inquired.

"I have contacts within Shinra. One is an old friend of mine, and he gave me this information a few years earlier, thinking that it was harmless." Well, that was not entirely true, but it served his purposes. "These antibodies remain in the system for well over a year before disappearing, and until they do disappear, a SOLDIER is unable to use the enhancements from the Mako; in fact, until then, the antibodies detracts severely from their capabilities." He paused to make sure that sank in before continuing. "Now, the interesting thing is that when the viral strands attack the system of a person, even if they do not succeed in actually infecting the cells, the body produces antibodies extremely similar to those from initial Mako exposure. The results are predictable."

Szandara's eyes sparked with surprise. "Can you be certain? That would be great!"

At the same time, Highwind stated with doubt, "And did your _friend_ tell you _that_ as 'harmless information', too?"

"In fact, the first bit about SOLDIER was indeed from my contact. He had access to the notes on the first implementation of the project and forwarded copies to me at my request. You see, I have been thinking for years on ways to combat SOLDIER. On the day that I had first tested my viral sample, I had been reviewing my notes on SOLDIER. You see: the antibodies had always intrigued me... for Mako is not an actual biological process any more than stone is, but they remained the only weaknesses that I could identify. When I noticed how the results of my tests coincided with the forms of the antibodies that I had been studying... I sent a small copy to my contact, who then deployed it against one of the SOLDIER First. The results were hushed up, but he told me of the reaction, and then, I knew that I had a weapon capable of truly crippling Shinra."

"Very interesting, indeed..." Godo remarked, before asking the question that he had been saving as a sort of "last test" of sorts. "And would this work against Sephiroth?"

"I doubt it. The metabolism and structure of an Ancient would probably be enough to counteract or at least ameliorate the effects of the virus, and I don't doubt that he could deal with the symptoms through pure strength of will." Harlan paused, then, letting the doubt show on their faces. "However, I _do_ have plans for him. Different plans."

The explanation took well over an hour, but at the end, even Pahlavi had been laughing. As they shook their hands and signed to the sheet of paper, Harlan couldn't help but feel content. AVALANCHE had been born, and Phase one was complete. Almost.

* * *

Zack wasn't exactly comfortable with what he was doing, here, but he, as the second-in-command of SOLDIER, didn't really have anyone he trusted to run to with his problems. Well, except for him, and he generally didn't like it when people showed up at his doorstep in the early hours of the morning, seeking help for their personal issues. But hell, he had nowhere else to go. 

And so, he found himself standing in front of General Sephiroth's door in the early hours of the morning, knocking tentatively on the door, rather intimidating in its designs of corpses missing various body parts. _Jeez, and he wonders why no one stops to make a social call_. He really didn't think that his commanding officer would be extremely pleased with the topic of discussion that he planned on raising – him more than most people – but Zack just didn't know who else to talk with. Either they didn't have the authority to hear it, or they would laugh at him. At least Seph listened. Well, sometimes, at least.

The door opened quickly enough, channeled on a flow of Air so that the visitor found himself staring at an empty corridor. Sephiroth was certain, Zack decided, that he could handle anything that came up, if it became necessary, and Zack had, as a part of his rare sociability lessons, insisted that Sephiroth at least answer the door when someone was knocking.

"It's late. What brought you up here?" The voice seemed to come from where a normal person would be standing relative to the door, and the only thing that told Zack that the General wasn't just standing there, hidden behind a flow of subtle Manipulation, was that his trained mind would have picked up the slight trace of _wrongness_ that came with any such weaving. Zack assumed that he would be using his other, non-Materia abilities.

Still, talking to nothing was disconcerting. "Seph, come on. I thought we had decided early on that you wouldn't be playing any mind games with me, alright?"

"Fair enough." Still the voice came from in front of him. "And don't call me that."

Zack waited. "Um, Sephiroth..."

"What is it?" came from the doorway in a slightly irritated voice.

"Where are you?" Zack replied painstakingly. This was just a needless bother.

"Isn't it obvious?" Sephiroth asked with a light, almost imperceptible laugh. Still from in front of him. _Seph... ugh._ Remembering some of the General's lessons, it did indeed become blindingly obvious.

Zack whirled around, finding a slightly grinning Sephiroth not an inch behind him, gazing down at him expectantly. Being so physically close to the man, it was very, very hard not to be afraid. He radiated command and authority and respect even without Materia, and when one was in his presence, it seemed logical to do exactly what he said, right when he said it. However, Zack was, if not comfortable with, at least used to Sephiroth's more overt displays of what the General called humor, so he just shrugged it off, scowling lightly at the taller man.

Slightly chiding, Sephiroth remarked, "I thought I had taught you better. Never keep your rear unguarded. It can lead to pain in sizeable quantities, in that position."

_Jeez, coming from anyone else, that would be _very_ creepy. But then, Seph is Seph. He's different._ "Seph, I know it's late, but that's not polite, you know. Now, let's sit down and talk."

"As you wish. And Zachary, you had better have a good reason for being here." His voice hadn't changed, but Sephiroth's normal way of talking was ominous and cold enough to consider that a warning.

They crossed the threshold, and Sephiroth gestured roughly to the chairs in the living room. Zack appreciated the sign of improvement, however slight, but he still worried that his friend never had any chances to really practice his social skills. He tried and tried to make the General socialize in any setting, but the man was so suspicious, so closed, and so unyielding, most of the time. Oh well; there was only so much Zack could do.

As they sat down in the stiffly unpadded chairs, the main door closed, all of the lights in the apartment came on, a glass of lemonade, beaded with condensation, floated into the General's right hand, a large tome that had been sitting on the coffee table closed and flew back onto the shelf, the windows opened to let in fresh air, and a soft classical tune began playing. Zack thought that he'd never be able to get used to Sephiroth's skill with magic. The way he manipulated weaves, so many at once – this was far less than the most he had ever done at one time – was simply astonishing to the Commander. Though he prided himself on being able to at least split his weaves and use them individually, Zack knew that he would never come anywhere even close to his superior and mentor. And for his part, Sephiroth didn't seem to care at all. It was just natural for him, Zack supposed. Which made him feel even more inadequate.

"I am going to assume that this is important, Zachary." Sephiroth said; it was just like him to think that that constituted a valid conversation starter.

Zack drew a deep breath and spoke in the most serious way possible. "It's about Aeris."

"The flower girl you mentioned last night?" he raised an eyebrow slightly, but added to they wry note in his voice, Zack cringed. If Seph wasn't going to take him seriously, this would not end well.

"That's the one. Anyways, she's in the Shinra building right now – Hojo's laboratory, in fact." A pause. "I don't think she came of her own free will."

"No, she most assuredly did not. I saw one of the Turks bring her in right before the demonstrations. Reno, I think his name was." Sephiroth smirked at that; he knew perfectly well that the two men were friends.

Reno_ brought her in! _"I... see..." Zack replied, tone slightly shaken. _So that explains the scene in the lobby when I brought Cloud in... hmm, I'd better go talk to Reno tomorrow. He's probably not too happy right now... or too drunk to care._

"So." Sephiroth prodded once more.

"I'm... well..." Zack paused, the General looking at him expectantly. "I'm... ah..."

Sephiroth was in his 'command voice', this time. "Out with it."

"I'm worrying about her." He blurted out. He could have smoothed up the delivery a bit, given time, but when Seph used his 'command voice'...

A long period of near-silence reigned, the only sounds being the echoing strains of the music, a slow, soothing lullaby-esque piece.

At last, the General replied dubiously. "Was that supposed to be a joke? You know I'm not all that skilled at comprehending normal human humor." He then proceeded to laugh, as Zack had taught him to, at what he saw to be a "joke".

"Goddamnit, Seph, I'm serious about this!" he snapped, and the General's laughter stopped abruptly as he frowned at Zack's tone. "Alright, fine, I know that I've never been really serious about someone in the past, but this is different, okay?"

Sephiroth snorted. "Do you expect me to believe that, Zachary? You've only spoken with her, and briefly at that, for one time under pressing circumstances, and that is hardly a rational base for what you seem to be trying to say."

"I don't know... it's just... she seemed... different." Zack replied lamely. "She seemed... special."

"You are correct, Zack. It's good to know that your observational senses haven't failed you completely in the presence of a beautiful young woman." Sephiroth joked with a sharp grin. Then, he continued in a more serious tone. "I delved her mind when I met her. She is not human and in fact has quite a large store of untapped potential power."

Zack considered that. He knew that Sephiroth was fully capable of ascertaining a great deal of information from a single glance, and it _did_ explain a few things. "I see. After our encounter, she Healed the two of us, but without Materia or any sort of item. In fact, her Healing actually worked _better_ than Materia or items."

"Can you describe the sensation?" Sephiroth asked with a somewhat curious tone. Non-Materia magic always interested him.

Zack remembered it with awe. "It was like a breeze, not like the simulators... a real wind, strong but not too strong, warm and soft and caressing."

"A wind." Sephiroth repeated cynically. Normally, both men knew, Healing by Materia felt as if the pain simply vanished, wounds disappearing and injury fading. Potions produced a brief sensation of extreme cold, and when the shock vanished after a fraction of a heartbeat, the pain went with it.

"Yes, a wind. It just washed right through me, leaving a sensation of comfort, almost euphoria. All of my muscles just went completely loose and relaxed, and some of the mild effects from my alcohol consumption vanished with it, also." Zack ignored the General's disapproving glance and continued. "The wind itself only lasted for a few seconds, but the warmth and comfort lingered for about half an hour. There was no sense of any discomfort at all in my body, and quite frankly, it was one of the best experiences I've ever had in my life."

Sephiroth inclined his head to the side quizzically, and a book flew out of the bookshelf, pages turning rapidly without a hand touching them. "Are you completely certain of the accuracy of your description, Zachary?"

"Yes, Seph." Zack replied. "But that's not why I came up here."

The General cut him off with a sharp motion of his hand. Examining the book before him, he looked a combination of exultant and surprised. "Ah... take a look at this, and tell me what you think, Zachary." Belatedly, he tacked on, "And don't call me that. I have a name. Use it." The book glided over to Zack, and he looked at the page briefly.

"Um... Sephiroth, I can't read this..." Indeed, the symbols were all foreign to him, odd combinations of curved and straight lines that formed long rows and columns of characters. It vaguely looked like Wutain script, but Zack had been trained to read and write Wutain, just as all of SOLDIER First had, and he knew that it wasn't the island nation's writing.

Sephiroth smiled triumphantly. "Exactly. This, Zachary, is written in Cetran, one of the rare books to have survived from their time, and the passage here," he jabbed with a finger, "describes, in detail, how female Ancients worked the healing arts. It matches your account almost exactly, and that is only because here, it speaks of them curing grave illnesses just when death seemed imminent."

"So... she's an Ancient?" Zack asked in tones of complete surprise. He had thought that Sephiroth had been the last of them... "Does knowing that she's of your kind change your mind about her? You said earlier that you didn't care at all."

"Certainly. I cannot let Hojo kill someone who could be a prospective mate." At Zack's bewildered look, he added, "I cannot simply allow the Cetra to become extinct, Zachary, and I see no other options available. It will be difficult enough, with only one family line."

"Right." It was hardly his fault if Zack's voice was faint. _Well, if Sephiroth decides that he wants her, there's not much I can say or do about it..._ "Do you think you have the authority to simply kill the project?"

With a tinge of regret, Sephiroth replied, "No. Hojo will most likely have the backing of the President for something like this." A pause. "However, I believe that if we maintain a presence, not overly threatening, but there nonetheless, he will not act too rashly in his conduct. It is the best that I can do, under the circumstances, but I am sure that we can devise some sort of plan. Be up at 0600 hours." The Cetran book snapped shut and replaced itself, and Sephiroth stood.

"Alright, Seph. Thanks for helping me out on this." Zack replied gratefully, also rising.

To his surprise, the General laughed. "Helping you, Zachary? I'm doing this for the future of our race, mind you, not simple human emotion. You _still_ haven't convinced me that you're capable of feeling for Aeris differently than all of the others you've used and discarded over the years, and I'm bringing you along only because you would have pestered me non-stop until I agreed."

"It seems my reputation has preceded me." Zack sighed. He knew that his rather promiscuous behavior would come back to harm him, one day or another.

Sephiroth clapped him warmly over the shoulder. "It would be more accurate to say that you built it in my presence." Which was true. "Now, get off back to your quarters, and that's an order. You won't appear to be very threatening, staggering and half-asleep."

"Yes, General." Zack replied duly, rising from his seat to go. You didn't go against the General's direct orders... well, if you wanted to keep your head attached to your body, at least.

His host, if one could call Sephiroth that, led him to the door, and Zack bid him good night before leaving. Once he was in the corridor, though, the black-haired man swore loudly, knowing that the heavy door would block out the sound.

_So now _Sephiroth_ of all people thinks that I'm incapable of handling a serious relationship? _The problem, he knew, was that that was probably true. His actions and statements in the past had hardly shown him to be a steady person when it came down to women. _Mom was right. I am an **idiot** for having chosen to do this._

But Sephiroth _had_ said that he had no emotional values in mind regarding Aeris, and had slightly implicated that he might change his mind if Zack could prove himself "capable". _Seph as a father/brother figure... Who the heck would have guessed?_

Entering the elevator, he began humming lightly, something Zack used to disguise his periods of deep thinking. His conclusions might have not been entirely rational, just as most of his adult life had not been.

But it was something to think about.

* * *

A/N: I have to admit that I did indeed base Hojo's character off of Robert Jordan's Semirhage, but I thought it fit really well with what we see of the Professor from the game. 

Oh, and I deliberately chose some of the most under-written characters from the FF7 fanfiction universe to be my antagonists. Nothing wrong with some diversity, right? Seriously, I don't think I've seen anything on this site that even uses them at all as main characters. And since none of them really have backstories, I get to write ones for them! Yay!

Oh, and I didn't just pull up the formation of AVALANCHE from thin air. Barret mentions in Cosmo Canyon that a man studying Planet Life there formed the group, but my AVALANCHE will be based more on real-life terrorist groups. Having done extensive research, I can say that in-game AVALANCHE's operating protocol was a joke. Mine will be much more... efficient :)

Oh, and please don't refrain from reviewing with constructive criticism. I tried to work a bit more on dialogue in this chapter; does the current balance work better than the previous ones? What do you think of the pacing? How much time and space should I use on description? Your opinions on those kinds of things are, frankly, more useful and encouraging than a generic 'good job' - though I won't pretend that I don't like to hear that one, either

From here on out, the story _really_ begins. Stay tuned.


	5. Troubling Thoughts

A/N: 100 pages of exposition... sheesh, at this rate, this story will be well over 400 pages by the time I'm done with it...

My thanks to Ruff Collie for her very much appreciated review.

This chapter was written to two of my favorite ambience tracks - Winternight by Pasi Sivula and Three Ta'veren by the same artist. Actually, all of Pasi Sivula's Wheel of Time-inspired music is great for writing to, in my opinion.

**Threads of Spirit:  
Troubling Thoughts**

* * *

Ortsac Nomis had been trained well. Fort Condor's only Midnight Chocobo and lavished because of it, he could handle the steepest and most unstable of precipices and the most tumultuous and chaotic of rolling seas with equal skill and ease, and Wedge himself had taught the bird evasive and tactical maneuvers in case of the unexpected. The fighter had no doubts at all that Ortsac could handle himself perfectly well without its rider directing it, evading roaming monsters and the occasional Shinra outpost with barely a hitch in its oddly trotting gait. That gave Wedge time to think and coordinate, something that he had always preferred over brash directness. The latter tended to get you killed. 

Shielding his eyes against the rising sun, he began planning, re-evaluating old ideas and modifying them to fit the current mold of information as any good commander would. A lot of the discussion last night had fit in very well with the plans that he himself had already laid months if not years ago, something none of the rest of them necessarily had to know, yet. After all, he had been subjected to enough broken deals and backstabs throughout his career to know how his way about contingencies and backups.

Before him, the last of the redstone canyons, jagged in their beauty faded away, and Wedge was greeted with a breathtaking view of the Great Ocean, sparkling and dancing under the early morning sun. But the natural scenery wasn't important to him. To his north, he knew would be South Corel, where Dyne was probably right now. The miner had left early last night, almost right after signing, claiming that he had "important things to deal with". Normally, Wedge would have been suspicious, but with a man so unsophisticated as Pahlavi, the fighter wouldn't put it past him to be simply telling the truth. And that was dangerous. Simple truth made for weaknesses, and weaknesses made for enemies. But what if the miner wasn't as ignorant as he seemed? Surprises were not much welcome in his line of work, and that one in specific could be particularly deadly.

But the mining town didn't occupy his attention for long. To the south would be the small reactor town of Gongaga, their first target. Wedge tried to scan the area for tactical information, but aside from rolling, forested hills that would provide excellent cover for infantry, it was too heavily wooded for him to make much out from the glance. If he hadn't decided that he wouldn't be delaying, he would have gone in for a closer look, himself.

Officially, reconnaissance would be the purview of Lord Godo and his special forces, the Anjian. Born of Continental supporters of the Wutain cause, the group – literally, Sharp Shadows – trained nearly from the cradle on infiltration, intelligence gathering, and sabotage. Able to blend in like any other "harmless" civilian on the Continent in any population center, members of Anjian had long ago inserted themselves into the major cities. Once the recall code was given, the sleeper agents would be powerful weapons, indeed. But could they be trustworthy? That was, as always, the problem. Wedge itched for firsthand information.

But information, officially, wasn't Wedge's concern. No, his job was delaying Shinra, splitting their capabilities by drawing more of their light-infantry/police forces towards Fort Condor. Once the Company had left the main cities more vulnerable to infiltration and attack, Wedge's "allies" could proceed with their tasks. Oh, Light, how it burned that he had to continue to play passively and defensively, but he had accepted the plan, if grudgingly, and it would not do to go against it so soon. That would be dangerous, and unnecessarily so.

As they were just about to begin traveling through the water, Wedge embraced a Protect Materia in his wrist guard and cast Barrier on himself, shielding him from the spray and wake that the Chocobo's travel would generate. Part of him was worried that the wake could be tracked, but speed was of the essence, here. And if there was one thing he was truly afraid of, other than waking up to find Sephiroth standing at the foot of the bed, it was getting wet. He knew it was an irrational phobia, but he was too busy fighting Shinra to seek counseling on the matter. Rushing waves surged towards him – and stopped short three feet away, repulsed by his invisible curtain. Wedge sighed in relief.

Defeating and toppling the Shinra Company had been his goal in life, indoctrinated in him by his father – his mother had died shortly after giving birth – almost as soon as he was born. Years of watching the damage Shinra wrought had merely further driven that belief into his mind, and now he barely had the time or will to think of much else. Truth be told, he didn't really _want_ to think of much else. His persona was that of a nocked arrow on the string, taut on the bow to seek its one target.

Ever since that day four years ago, when a SOLDIER raid had seen his father dead and his brother taken away, never to be seen again, he had taken it unto himself to lead Fort Condor, and while he relished the opportunity to soundly hold Shinra at bay for so long, it was wearing at him heavily. He didn't need the doctor or his comrades to tell him that, for he knew that no one could keep up the tense strain for long. Maybe, once this was all over, he could step down and relax. But that was too far in the future for consideration.

Muttering tersely, Wedge gave the Chocobo a slight kick, urging him on to greater speed. Even knowing that his fellow freedom fighters were just as capable without him as with, he couldn't help but feel that if he didn't hurry, the Fort would be in ruins by the time he did arrive. He couldn't help but worry. The Fort was his home, and he knew nothing but it, and strife. If it had been removed, if it had never existed, how would he have lived his life? It was something to think about. When he had nothing else, that is.

As they continued plowing quickly through the foaming blue-green waves, Wedge couldn't help but feel a sense of awe at the sight that came just to the southeast. A massive stone ziggurat, rising in tiered levels of obsidian and granite, protruded through the forests, radiating power and mystery and hidden knowledge. He had never been there himself – he had no time, frankly, and the territorial insects were incredibly bothersome even for one such as he – but he thought that one day, sometime in the future, he would come back to explore and divine the secrets hidden within the structure. Something like that _had_ to have secrets, after all.

The problem was that when every day held another assault, or two or three, it became difficult to think strategically, and one had a tendency to focus every bit of concentration on the here and now. But a good commander had to remember that there _was_ a tomorrow, with the problems and difficulties of a new day. However, try and plan too far ahead, and the enemies of the present tense would crush you to bits. It made for a tenuous balance, and a delicate one. He was not sure, himself, if he had managed to find a working solution.

"What the...!" Wedge gasped, jerking the reins to tell Ortsac to stop. He needn't have bothered. The Chocobo stood still, rooted with fear, brilliant black plumage rising in warning.

He stared with wide eyes at the Temple. The entire structure was glowing a soft yet vibrant shade of whitish green. As Wedge watched, the very top tier of the building flashed a nova of pure gold, burning and lustrous, and the fighter had to seize the reins tightly to keep the Chocobo from bolting. Ortsac had never done so before, but neither he nor Wedge had ever seen anything like this...

The glow seemed to coalesce at the top of the Temple's spires, forming a translucent orb of radiant emerald light floating in the gray skies, bathing the area in a surreal glow. With a sound like a long roll of thunder, the orb split into two shapes that vaguely reminded Wedge of Wutain Serpents, coiling and undulating against one another. Soon, fully separated, they rose into the roiling clouds and streaked towards the north as if driven by immense winds, leaving the Temple of the Ancients dull and lifeless once more.

Shaking his head, Wedge tapped the reins, and Ortsac complied quickly, seeming glad to be getting away from the scene. _Did I really see that, or was it just another messed-up hallucination?_ The Light knew that he had seen enough of those recently. No matter. He had more important things to be dealing with than lights in the sky. He went back to thinking of how he would present his information to his top tier of advisors and commanders.

The rest of the journey passed swiftly and uneventfully, despite a narrow encounter with a roving Shinra scout-patrol and an irritating brush with those goddamned frogs in the nearby forests. Relieved that his White Cape protected him from the more... annoying aspects of their attacks, he cursed at the distraction. He did not need nor want distractions, right now. The reactions among his advisors could be... difficult to predict.

At the base of Fort Condor, he nodded once to the sentry there, who saluted back, and handed him Ortsac's reins before climbing the knotted rope leading into the worn beaten caves that he called his home. Upon entering the first cavern, he immediately slipped back into his leadership role, firmly pushing the phenomena that he had witnessed earlier out of mind.

Seizing a megaphone, he called out. "We're holding a strategy session to discuss the outcomes of the trade meeting I attended. I want all unit commanders and higher in the conference room at 10:30. That is all."

He headed into his personal chambers to shower and change, still thinking of how to best present his information. He needn't have bothered.

"So, this Andrax, he speaks of a large number of lesser attacks instead of a few large ones, yes?" The bombardment coordinator asked when Wedge spoke of the tiger and hound analogy.

Wedge nodded with a neutral mien. "Essentially, yes. We'll want to spread out their forces as far as possible, which should be fairly easy, considering the logistics involved." The men and women around the table nodded. Gongaga and Nibelheim were almost impossible to aid, due to their remote location, and transferring equipment and men from Midgar to Junon and back would be possible only through aerial means. Those were easy to take care of.

His senior intelligence officer frowned, drumming restless fingers on his coffee mug. "Why not many large attacks directed at both the Company _and_ the President, then? What would happen if the President were to be eliminated?" he asked hypothetically, then answering. "The Vice President is still too young to fully succeed his father, and that would leave the department heads and the military command authority to fight for the post. I think that would be to our benefit."

"I daresay Sephiroth could take it quite easily, and any regime led by him could be far worse than anything old Kristoph could ever manage." Wedge remarked dryly. A Shinra led by the General would be... _bad_.

Intel replied with a lazy smile, hardly befitting his hardened scarred face and missing teeth. Even he had served on the front, and he had the scars to prove it. "Sephiroth could take power any time he wanted, _if_ he wanted. The leading belief is that he simply doesn't care about it... it leaves one to think what he _does_ care about, but I'd feel confident betting that he would stand to one side and wait until someone else came out as the winner. And _that_ means that no one could feasibly win." Then the man frowned again; it was by far his most common expression – news was more often than not grim any given day of the week. "However, President Shinra would be a difficult target, indeed. He is well guarded and well informed, and he has no qualms about going into hiding for a month – or even a year – if it meant that he would survive a potential assassination."

"But what about..." Treasury chimed in.

And so it had gone on, for over three hours. All in all, his senior personnel had seemed quite enthusiastic about the proposal, and the rank-and-file commanders appeared to be glad that they would be getting aid soon. As he had given his tactical orders, Wedge couldn't help but smile crookedly. This was going well, better than he would have thought.

As the personnel filed out to contact their various sponsors and the usual mercenary groups, Wedge nodded to his lieutenant, a lithe brunette woman in her middle years who was deadly serious and specialized in explosives and data sequence manipulation.

"Ilene, secure the special line." he gestured at the black cellular phone in the corner of the conference room. It was almost never used, and for good reason, but this communiqué would be of deadly importance. If there was ever a time to contact someone in Midgar, then it was now. He couldn't wait any longer if he was to have any chance at all in his operations.

The woman looked at him askance with inquiring blue eyes, but she didn't question him as she fetched the appropriate materials. The use of the Uno'yi pad was completely safe, but it was also extremely tedious, and for normal calls, an encryption algorithm would have been enough. But this was hardly a normal call.

Once the key was set to the proper alphanumeric designator – 2990M7590S4890C was the _prefix_ of the sequencer – Wedge activated the phone for the first time in his life and dialed a number that he had been told of six years ago by his father, who had warned him about its use. The message was not long of necessity. Even with the added security he had placed on the call, it was best to limit the length of the transmission so as to deny Shinra's technicians much time to track the source. At least the call wasn't interrupted.

Turning to face his not-quite friend, he smiled genuinely. "Ilene, there's another part of the plan that I didn't explain to the others. I would like your input on it, as usual."

She shook her head and chuckled softly. "As usual, Wedge. So you really don't trust this Andrax guy, do you?" Not waiting for a response, she continued languorously. "You know, if this has anything to do with B.J., I can tell you right now that you ought to have started that part of the plan years ago. I'm sure it would have yielded quite a few fruitful returns."

"First of all, how do you expect me to trust a man who more than likely lied to all of us on more than one occasion, plans on using viral warheads on Shinra, and thinks he has the _Planet_ talking to him? Damn it, I only accepted because he said that he'd help us out, if _that_ weren't a lie, too. It was a business deal, just like any other. You know how these things work." Wedge sighed and shrugged, sitting back down onto his lightly padded chair. "And about B.J., I didn't call to deploy for active maneuvers yet. That call was for simple recon, contact work and the like. If we need to use B.J. offensively, we'll have to wait for now. It's still too risky."

"So you don't trust Lord Godo and the Anjian, either, huh? They were supposed to handle the intel side of this op, remember? Our role was support only, for now, at least." Her mouth tightened. "Well, actually, that's going by what you've said." She paused, unconsciously twiddling her thumbs out of long habit. "It's not that I don't trust you, per se, but _you_ ought to trust _them_."

"I trust Godo as much as I would any other prospective ally." Which meant 'not very much'. "Perhaps more. We both share a common purpose. I think it's best if we get some information on our own. The Anjian probably aren't completely objective."

"And B.J. is? Damnit, I know it's no use to argue about this, what with the order already given, but Wedge, you really ought to listen to your advisors before you do something rash like this!" That was one thing he liked about her; she always gave what she saw as the truth, no matter how little he wanted to hear it. "You could be compromising their operational safety with a move like that! Sometimes, I wonder how if you even trust me anymore!"

Wedge grimaced, looking out of the window to survey the Shinra troop camps below. They would be beginning their morning drills soon. Just another day... "Look, no need to get all upset, alright, Ilene? You did fine work for my father and you do fine work for me."

"You still didn't tell me what your plans are," she reminded him with a pointed look.

A sigh. Wedge clenched his fists and turned to glare at her, though not angrily. "Are you sure you _want_ to know what my plans are?"

"Of course!" she replied in tones of unusual enthusiasm. Then, in a more serious voice, she continued. "How else am I supposed to keep you alive?"

Wedge sighed again; she had no idea what she was getting into. Then he told her how he intended to act.

Her tanned face blanched into a shade of white, and she frowned, muttering. "Are you absolutely certain that you want to go through with this?"

"Of course. How _else_ am I supposed to keep you all alive?" It sounded nothing at all like how she had said it. Then he laughed.

* * *

Rodney "Rude" Stephens hated firearms of all shapes and sizes with a passion, hated the barking sound of the discharge and the acrid smell of the powder and the clouds of fine red mist that would rise about the victim. They were always victims, to Rude, those who had been the targets in a shooting, no matter their status, wealth, or social standing before. It was one of the few beliefs that he held unwaveringly. 

But despite that, he practiced with them daily, despising it and yet embracing it. Let the media call him a hypocrite. He didn't care what any of those idiots who called themselves reporters said or thought or did, unless it directly threatened his life – and let them try. He had better things to do, and he had his reasons.

The indoor range, adjacent to the Shinra Building Gym, was already busy when Rude walked in, full of Turks-in-training in their blue-striped black and normal Army personnel in more casual outfits. The two groups always stood apart, Rude noted. How sad. An army's intelligence wing had to co-exist and function _with_ the army, not outside of it. Some people never learned.

Selecting two twelve-round boxes of 5mm armor-piercing – he didn't like the hydroshock rounds that almost everyone else preferred; why would you ever want to inflict the immense pain of a hydroshock when the surgical precision of the armor-piercing worked just as well? – as well as three of the standard combat training targets – he didn't expect to be attacked by circles or dots any time soon – and a set of ear protectors, he walked to an empty slot on the range.

Opening the small case that contained his stainless-steel long-barrel Red Nada T600 automatic, he closed his eyes behind his glasses and assembled the gun by memory, a task made easy by over half a dozen years' of practice. As the well-oiled steel ratcheted and clicked together, and muffled shots rang out periodically in the background, Rude couldn't help but let his memory dwell on that night, sixteen years ago... he had failed, then, but he wouldn't, next time. But there wouldn't be a next time. There couldn't. A visual inspection of the weapon told him that he hadn't failed there, at least.

Shaking his head slowly, he attached the cardboard target to the spring-clip on the range traveler, setting it to ten meters. As the target, a silhouette of a man with outlines of the heart and brain, moved downrange, he tried to let himself relax, as he had been taught. But he couldn't, not with the overwhelming sense of rage and guilt that almost consumed him, every time he let his mind dwell on that night.

When the target moved to its correct position, the cardboard turned sideways, making itself nearly invisible. Rude rolled the timer to a random setting and pressed the button. Without a sound, the target began traveling back towards him. He continued to look downrange, hands at his side. The memories were coming back, and he did not resist.

_Something was wrong. He had known it ever since stepping through the threshold of their house in the Sector Two slums, back from just another normal day at his job packaging pharmaceuticals. Running a hand through his thinning hair – the damn air at the chemical plant must have been doing something to it – Rodney began walking towards the kitchen for a glass of water to clear out the dust in his throat._

_"Mom?" he called. His parents were usually home by now, the nineteen-year-old thought. "Dad?" It wasn't like them to be out at this hour. "Alyssa?"_

_That when he smelled it, the wrongness; a foul, acrid tang that clogged his nostrils beyond what the chemicals had already done. He knew what that odor was, as anyone from the slums knew. Blood. Shrugging off his overcoat hurriedly, he threw open the door to the dining room, which led into the kitchen._

_The stench was stronger, here. It hit him at once, even before his eyes took in the sight before him. Max Stephens lay sprawled on the ground, limbs askew and sightless eyes open in a gesture of shock and surprise at his death. Four ragged holes in his chest oozed blood onto the tiled floor, adding to an already sizeable puddle of it. The part of his brain that was still functioning told him that it was a fairly recent wound. None of the blood had dried yet. He tried to scream, but couldn't; his throat was so dry._

_The rational part of him was telling him to leave. Now. He stood no chance against anyone with a gun, and getting himself killed here wouldn't do anyone any good. Every other fiber of him, though, screamed at him to go on and make sure his mother and Alyssa were all right, despite the vast evidence to the contrary. Damn it, his parents were elderly and peaceful, and his sister was just a little girl! What the hell had they done to deserve this?_

_Running towards the staircase, another part of his hope died. Lying facedown on the ground, Irene Stephens could almost have passed for sleeping peacefully, except that the thick carpet beneath her was stained crimson. Grabbing his mother's cane from her cold, limp fingers and shivering, he took the steps three at a time, booted fleet banging on the wood. He thought he heard faint sounds of scuffling from upstairs. Maybe there was still a chance..._

_"Idiot," he heard from his right upon reaching the landing. A cold hard object impacted on the side of his head, and everything faded to black._

_When he next awoke, the sounds were much closer. He tried to combat the enormous headache rippling through him, attempting to rise, and failing both. Groaning, he realized that he had been bound at the ankles and wrists, sitting in his sister's favorite chair. Shit. No. His eyes opened despite the pain._

_His sister's auburn eyes pleaded silently at him, and he felt a rasping growl rising in his throat. He had one arm clenched around her throat, another idly caressing the curves of her body. Her hands had been tied behind her back, Rodney noticed, and a dirty white kerchief muffled whatever noises she was trying to make._

_"This is what happens when you get in the way of Anshiva. Tell the Boss that this was a warning. The next time, I'll be going for him directly," the man sneered. "In the meantime, I think I'm going to enjoy myself."_

_Rodney tried to scream, tried to protest that he had no idea what the man was talking about, that they had nothing to do with him. This was all a mistake! But he couldn't; another wad of cloth was tied against his jaw, too. There was nothing he could do. The logical part of him took down the man's physical description for later use – moderately tall, with burning blue eyes and sandy brown hair, cut short. A regal face was contorted in rage and anger, and perfect white teeth were clenched in a grimacing hate._

_The human part of him wanted to but couldn't stop his sight from being processed or his ears from operating. Eyes closed, the images still burned in his mind, and he could do nothing against the sounds. Soft, faint whimpers and shrill shrieks, interposed with cruel laughter and the occasional crack of a blow. Silently, Rodney raged. Alyssa was only fourteen; she was too young for this! No, there was no age for this. The memory of her eyes, faintly accusing, resurfaced, and he struggled against his bonds, to no avail._

_After what seemed an eternity, the sounds slowed, but the tense quiet was suddenly pierced by two deafening cracks. He felt like he heard metal scraping, but everything else was silent. Rodney kept his eyes shut, afraid of what he might see if he opened them._

_It took Rodney a while to realize that the man was speaking. "Now, I could kill you and be justified in every way if I did, but I don't think I'm going to do that. I'm going to let you live your life full of shame and remorse, every day a waking hell! That's what the Boss did to me; he deserves the turnabout!" The voice was full of bitterness and hatred, yet also fatigue and confusion near the end. Was this guy sane?_

_"Now, someone's going to find you sooner or later. Don't bother trying to report me to the police; they can't touch me. Have fun with the rest of your life, you son of a bitch." The door opened and closed. Silence. The timer clicked._

And Rude immediately jerked from his reminiscence, long years of training making his actions instinct. His left hand moved in a blur, snatching the pistol from his coat pocket as the target turned to face him. At the same time, his left foot moved slightly backwards as his body crouched and turned a tad to the side. The right hand joined the left on the polymer grips when the gun was just under halfway up, and the gunsights appeared on the bottom of his peripheral vision. The moment the two sights were aligned on the forehead of the target, his finger depressed the trigger twice, firing so that both ejected cartridges were airborne simultaneously. The technique was called a double-tap, and Rude had practiced it for so long that the sound of the discharges almost blended in the air, and the echoes were just returning from the neo-steel backdrop when the empty cartridges clinked and bounced on the concrete floor. Two holes, barely a centimeter apart, dotted the target's forehead, between and slightly above where the target's eyes would have been. Flipping side-on against the spring-clip, it rather well simulated the fall of a dead man to the ground. Yes.

"Good shots, Rude." A familiar voice, serious and deep, brought the Turk back from his reverie. "How are you feeling?" Tseng asked with some concern.

He didn't say anything. There was nothing to say. The bald man merely shook his head and shrugged uncomfortably, working the slide on the automatic to reload. He wasn't done, yet.

"We'll find him some day, Rude."

And then he would be done. But that wouldn't mean that his family could live again, and it wouldn't change the fact that he had failed. But it would be a starting point. Two shots rang out again, and now there was a ragged hole in the target's forehead. It would be a good starting point, indeed.

* * *

Who would have thought that Shinra No.26 would have come down to this? Cid Highwind never would have guessed that Shinra's finest invention – he had no interest in weapons – would end up as nothing more than a landmark, or a symbol for times past. He _never_ would have thought that that would be because of _him_. 

But soon, that would change. Or so that fellow Andrax had said. A lot of what he had talked about had sounded too good to be true, something the pilot had pondered these last two days since returning to his hometown. He had decided in the morning that doing nothing would lead to an inevitable failure, while going along with Andrax merely gave him a chance of death, and however low the chance of success would be, it was better than nothing.

Leaning against one of the rusted support columns near the old launch pad, he cast his eyes about him warily. Wiping the early afternoon sweat off of his brow with a gloved hand, he shouted at no one in particular. "Where the bloody hell are my rockets?"

During the testing of liquid fuels, back when it seemed that Shinra had actually _cared_ about space travel, he had crafted and manufactured several dozen medium-range ballistic rockets and hundreds of smaller ones. And now, he couldn't find a single one of them. "Goddamnit!" he muttered, before leading off into a stream of other curses.

He was interrupted by a soft voice from behind him. "Um, Captain, sir, don't you remember?" The pilot bloody well did not, saying so irascibly. "We sold all of the functioning ones to Junon over a month ago..." That was Shera, the flaming idiot of an engineer/mechanic who had been responsible for ending his career, right when it had seemed as if nothing else could possibly go wrong with it.

But no, that wasn't really fair, either, was it? He had contributed equally by acting as he had, pressing the emergency shutdown button like that, but _she_ had set that situation up in the first place, delaying and delaying and delaying with those goddamned oxygen tanks. If she could have worked just a BIT faster, or if the manufacturer hadn't been a lazy numbskull... who knows what might have happened? If space travel could have proven profitable – damn those capitalistic bastards for thinking of nothing else – maybe Mako energy never would have really become so popular, and Andrax wouldn't have been so royally pissed off with Shinra. But if that were true, then Cid would have been in no position to complain, still the star pilot of Shinra. After all, he hadn't resigned until he learned of what they had done with his budget. Which brought him back to _why_ they had cut his budget, and _that_ brought him back to the annoying woman who now thought herself in his debt. Damn right she was.

Then he thought back to what Shera had said. _No more rockets...__Bloody hell_. Without those, he couldn't deliver on his end of the contract, and that meant that Andrax would have no obligation at all to help him out... the man _had_ said that he would have been perfectly capable of carrying out his attacks without his help anyways, only that the rockets would have made it easier. _Damn it. _He took out a cigarette and lit it, puffing away angrily. He had thought about quitting for various reasons, but he didn't inhale, and it helped his concentration.

"Is there any way we could possibly manufacture more?" That was a fool's hope, but he wasn't going to just give up his dream a _second_ time without a fight, indeed. And maybe he would turn out lucky... maybe. Though Lady Luck sure as hell didn't seem sympathetic to his cause, and hadn't been for the last... what, four years?

Shera looked at him inquisitively – she was a trained engineer, after all, if not an especially competent one. "No, they took all of the fabrication sets with them when they left, and we don't have the necessary raw materials and resources any more, even if they hadn't. Besides, why do you need those rockets again? You seemed pretty eager to get rid of the last batch."

There was no accusation in the query, only curiosity, but Cid snapped back, thoroughly irritated. "That's none of your damn business!" Then he betrayed himself, adding, "I just needed to do some tests; that's all." Ugh, had he really been _glad_ to sell them off? Probably. A few months back, he had been ready to give up. No more.

He wondered if he would have to clue Shera in on all of this. _Probably not. _Still, multiple independent re-entry vehicles – MIRVs – had never been a part of his specialization, and he wasn't really sure how he was supposed to load biological agents into the warhead component in the first place. Truth be told, military warheads hadn't really been a part of his specialization, either. And as luck would bloody well have it, both of those areas were under Shera's field of knowledge. But if he didn't have anything to fire, there was no point in telling her, yet. More likely than not, she'd find some way to screw it up for him. Again.

"Hmm, I think I _might_ just have a few left over from my independent studies." She paused, slightly crestfallen. "However, the guidance packages are all messed up... I haven't had much of a chance to work on them, yet."

Cid, on the other hand, was exultant at the news. "Well, why didn't you say so before? I'm sure I could fix the targeting – "

"No, I don't think you can." Shera interrupted tersely, then reverting back to her normal demure voice. "They were exposed to the thunderstorms a month ago, and somebody, though I have no idea who, must have messed up the electromagnetic data somehow... Short of replacing it entirely, I doubt that they could ever work again." She shook her head, turning to head back inside. "And before you ask, Shinra took the replacement packages back to Junon, too."

"Goddamnit!" Cid punched one of the rusted steel girders, ignoring and savoring the brief pain. "Is there anything they _didn't_ bloody take?" he asked in exasperation, not really thinking he would get a response.

"I'm afraid not, Captain." Shera looked truly woebegone at the prospect. "They didn't seem to want to leave us anything at all that might have still worked." She made a face. "But that doesn't mean we don't have a lot of useless junk lying around everywhere."

_Like you_, he thought, muttering darkly and kicking the girder, which groaned in protest. An ominous squeak sounded, the joins on the metal popping and bending. The Captain looked up at the cause of the noise and, after a moment of shocked realization, smacked himself on the head for his stupidity.

"No, Shera, I think what we have right here is just bloody well fine," he remarked with a laugh. _Much_ better than a landmark or a symbol, indeed.

* * *

SOLDIER Commander Zachary White was not at all pleased, and there was nothing he could do about it. The two factors combined made for a very frightening display, indeed. In fact, he was the only person in sight, the normal workers having had left for "various reasons" – he had thought the employee sign-out log extremely amusing today. And yesterday. And the day before that. And the day before _that_, too. The man wondered idly how they'd ever get _real_ work done, at this rate. _It's just like Shinra to be inefficient and useless like this_.

Sighing slightly, he settled back and continued practicing his weaves. This "maintain-a-presence" thing had seemed such a good idea, in the beginning, but now he was starting to doubt the validity of it. Hojo hadn't even left his private laboratory for sixty-three hours, now! The one time Zack had seen the Professor, on that first day when the Wutain was entering the laboratory, the conversation had not gone well.

_Zack had seized the puny man by the shoulder and forced him against the wall, directing every bit of force he could into a murderous glare. "What are you doing to Aeris, Hojo?"_

_The Professor simply sneered at him. "My orders are confidential. As usual. And you, SOLDIER, don't have the authority to override that confidentiality."_

_"I know your 'tricks', demon." Zack growled at him. "And I have my own plans for the girl. If I find out that you've harmed her, you will see just how skilled I am in the darker arts. I assure you that I practice often." Though not as practiced as the scientist, he was well versed in interrogatory techniques like any SOLDIER First-Class._

_Hojo laughed in his way, harshly, with a tinge of madness. "The hybrid's condition is somewhat tenuous, but only because of her own decisions. All of my actions thus far are completely covered in Shinra's protocol docket."_

_"Hybrid? She's as Cetran as Sephiroth is!"_

_"Of course..." Hojo smiled wickedly. "I... talked to her, and she admitted to not knowing of her ancestry. She didn't even know it was the Planet speaking to her at all! She blocks out the voices of her ancestors, and she shuns the inborn power that is her birthright! How is she Cetran, then?"_

_That thought had never occurred to him... well, he would have to have Sephiroth educate her, then. "Consider yourself warned, Hojo. I will be speaking to the President about this."_

_Luckily, Sephiroth had been whisked away to meetings most of these days, or else it would have been much, much worse. There were some things that Zack simply couldn't comprehend about the General's mind, but this was pretty clear. Sephiroth would have probably attempted to force his way in, and win or lose, that would have most decidedly not have ended well._

As he attempted to intertwine flows of Barrier and Ice – combining White and Black magic was incredibly frustrating, but the results were quite satisfying – the elevator opened, and a man he had not expected strode through with a combination of unease and resignation.

"Cloud? What are you doing here?" In his surprise, he let the weave collapse. Big mistake.

Sheets of ice rippled from the source of the flows, spreading outwards rapidly. Oh, damn... Hurriedly weaving a Magic Barrier around himself and Cloud, he winced as the waves literally crushed everything else in their path, grinding the furniture to dust and obliterating the wall columns. After a few seconds, the flows ceased, and the warning klaxons immediately began.

In the midst of swearing loudly, he heard a timid voice speak out. "Erm... I'm here for follow-ups for the Mako treatment, sir." Oh, right. Cloud was still here. "Um... what was that, anyways? It looked pretty cool."

"That," observed a familiar sharp voice, "is what happens when ignorant and foolish boys attempt to work on higher levels with Materia." Hojo had opened the portal to his interior laboratory, sneering at the two of them. Zack noticed abstractly that the scientist's hands were covered in blood, thick and crimson.

He was going to comment on that, mouth opened, when another familiar voice intruded. "Zachary... how many times now have I told you not to experiment with weaves in a non-expendable setting?" Sephiroth's voice a barest hint of disappointment, but then added. "I like the weave combination, though. Ice and Barrier... I never would have thought to use those two, together, and especially not in that way..." He began laughing openly in his way, softly but richly. "I'm glad the meeting didn't end a minute earlier. That would have been... painful." Keying his radio, he spoke into it. "Masamune to HQ-Base. The situation is under control. Tell security to stand down. Out."

The black-haired man gave a weak chuckle and grinned sheepishly. "Ah... Damnit, Seph. I wasn't planning on letting it collapse like that... but thanks for the compliment." _And thanks for pulling security off of me._ Then he looked back at Hojo, and his voice changed audibly. "Now, Hojo, tell me the truth. What's going on in there!"

The professor snorted. "Many things, few of which you would understand, and none that concern you." He turned to go back in. "You still have no clearance."

"Aeris concerns me!" Zack shot back at him, then regretted it. Sephiroth's mouth had set itself back into its usual line of disapproval, and Zack inwardly sighed. Think before you open that mouth of yours, idiot!

Hojo merely took out his keycard, swiping it and pressing in the code. "How... touching. I'll be sure to remind her of that." The door clicked open.

"Tell the truth, Sakai." Sephiroth vested the last two syllables with a river of scorn, and Zack could see the Professor blanche. "I know how you joined the company, healer," Sephiroth continued in similar tones.

What was this? Hojo, a healer? And why did Sephiroth call him Sakai? I guess that guy has an interesting file, indeed. One of these days, I'll have to find some excuse to pull it... or, I could just ask Sephiroth when he's in a good mood. Hojo's reply interrupted him, though.

"Very well, since you seem to care so much." The scientist had turned to face them, smiling smugly. "The hybrid attempted to kill herself earlier, if you must know. I was tending to her when your protégé here made all of this fuss."

Zack shook his head vigorously and prepared to reply, but Hojo was already gone, the thick steel door sealing behind him. "GODDAMNIT!" he shouted at no one in particular. "Something's up. And I don't like the sound of it," He added in a somewhat calmer voice.

"Indeed. She did not seem the type to consider such an action casually," Sephiroth concurred. "Sakai must be pressing her harder than I thought... It looks like you were right. I must speak to the President about this."

Zack looked around for Cloud; the blond seemed to have left discreetly. Wise man, that one. "Alright. First thing tomorrow." The President didn't entertain 'guests' this late, though the sun hadn't yet set. "And why were you calling him Sakai?"

"It's a long story." Sephiroth deadpanned and then sighed lightly at Zack's insistent look. "Keiji Sakai – as you know him, Tideki Hojo – is the most sadistic, cruelest inhumane genius that I have ever met and hope to meet. He was originally a Healer, but he was detained after they found him torturing his patients." Sephiroth grimaced at that, and Zack couldn't help but do the same. The two men moved towards the elevators; after all, their official hours were over, and neither wanted to have to deal with the mess.

"Instead of accepting the choices Lord Godo gave him – quite generous, considering the depth and magnitude of his crimes – he defected to us, long before the War started. The President accepted him immediately, of course – no matter his faults, Hojo is brilliant – and gave him a new identity: reconstructive surgery, a complete "family", and the works." Sephiroth sneered at that. He hated people who hid behind a false front. "Keiji Sakai was assumed dead, and no one had any reasons to believe otherwise. Indeed, many celebrated his death with open glee."

The cleanup crews were beginning to arrive, and Sephiroth stopped speaking as they exclaimed over the damage and the costs. Zack felt Sephiroth weave a cloak of Manipulation around the two of them, and they entered the elevator. The General swiped his keycard with a little bit more force than necessary and set the target to the ground floor.

Then he continued. "He rose through the ranks very quickly, becoming head of the Science Department within a year of his entrance. But I'm sure you're aware of his... flaws." Zack was surprised to hear Sephiroth curse lightly. The man never used profanity. "He enjoys giving pain to others, delights in it. He is half insane, but many who are brilliant are somewhat unstable, as well. The President does not care: so long as Hojo serves well, he can take his pleasures however he wishes to – that's the President's unofficial policy regarding all of this. I don't even think the man knows what's going on in there."

"And that's the kind of person who's been treating Aeris these last four days?" Zack didn't wait for the answer, vesting every once of disgust he could muster into his next word. "Shit."

Sephiroth shook his head. "My thoughts exactly," he replied in grim tones.

They traveled in silence after that.

* * *

It was over. Part of her heart wanted to keep on fighting, resisting until the end, but her mind had already resigned from the game, accepting defeat. How long had it been? Five, six days? Aeris didn't know – her sense of time was completely skewed by the continuous sleep deprivation forced upon her by the burning rivers of pain running through her. That, and the fact that everything blended into everything else – the pain, the hurting was always there; it was just the manner that varied every so often. 

Whatever time it was, Hojo wasn't in yet, but that didn't always mean the pain stopped. No, the man would set the weaves to run regardless, and she would be in agony throughout the night, or whenever it was. It completely drowned out her other senses – all fled before the oncoming waves of excruciating torment. But this time, the flows hadn't been set when Hojo had left, and that worried her. Changes in the routine always meant more suffering for her. But now she was able to think... in a fashion. Days without food and water and sleep had ravaged her mind, and she could never seem to concentrate before a relapse claimed her back into the realms of thoughtless screaming that she had visited all too often in the last week.

From her uncomfortable position on the table, she gazed down at her own body pitifully. While the direct mental torture that Hojo seemed to favor left no outside mark, his... other methods did. Bruises and gashes, long slashes and deep cuts covered her nearly from head to toe, and old, black blood from days earlier mingled with fresh, red one from the last session. Blotches of discoloration spoke of internal bleeding, and every breath she took felt like a dozen blades were pressing against her. Oh, Light, but it hurt. She was almost thinking that she would die, and she realized with a pang that she would have preferred death to this eternal agony. Then she remembered that he would never let her die. He had made that very clear, the time she was given her first choice.

_She felt the harsh metal bonds holding her down on the table open, and she opened her eyes slowly, carefully. The pain had stopped hours ago, but she still groaned when Hojo grabbed her shoulder and forced her in a sitting position, muscles protesting, cracking and twitching. Then he pushed her off the table, and she fell in an undignified heap on the tiled floor. She had no energy or desire to move. At least, in this position, the pain came from different directions. Even that was welcome from the sameness._

_"Get up," Hojo stated dryly._

_Aeris sighed but slowly eased herself into a standing position, leaning against the table for support, wrinkling her nose at the offal that covered it. One of her lessons had been to never disobey the Professor, no matter what. She did not hold any real hope that someone would save her from this, but she would take no steps to speed up her demise, on the off chance that someone, anyone, would come for her._

_Hojo smiled. "Good, hybrid." He made a note never to call her by her name, Aeris realized. It didn't seem to matter anymore. "I am going to give you a choice."_

_Reaching inside of his coat, he pulled out a long dagger and laid it on the side table. Aeris was no expert on weapons, but that edge looked wicked, serrated and with cruel barbs and spikes, and she gulped despite herself. It looked... painful._

_"You may either choose to get back on the table, or you may pick up the knife. If you take the knife, you may attempt to attack me with it. I am unarmed. Think about it. If you kill me, you can escape fairly easily. My keycard is here," he took it out and placed it on the table, "and the guards have no orders to restrain you if you attempt to leave." Then he sneered at her. "But if you fail to kill me, you will suffer for it. Choose. Now."_

_Aeris stared at the weapon. Here was her chance! Without thinking, she snatched it up and held it with one unsteady hand. The sensation was new to her – she had never taken up any implement of violence before, but this was clearly a time for exception. Trying to hold it up, her muscles failed her once more, and the knife hung limp in her hand._

_The Professor merely smiled at her. "Good choice, hybrid. Now, I'm going to assume that you've never fought with a knife, before. I would advise you to aim for the face. Injuries there are quite damaging psychologically as well as physically, and it's fairly easy to bleed someone to death through severing the capillaries."_

_Aeris tried to advance on him, but she hadn't been able to move her legs ever since she arrived here, and she had to force her burning and fatigued muscles to carry out her orders. The result was a pitiful staggering motion towards Hojo, almost losing her balance in the process. The knife shook in her hand, almost dropping to the floor._

_"Or, you could aim for the intestines and stomach," he continued, almost as if not caring at all. "It is a large and easy-to-hit target, and wounds to it can cause enough pain to allow for another, more precisely deadly strike."_

_Groaning, Aeris lunged at the scientist, but he merely stepped out of the way as the girl lost her balance and fell to the ground. Her last conscious thought, morbid and hopeless, was to turn the knife upwards and so impale her as she collapsed. She simply couldn't take this anymore._

_She heard Hojo "tsk" in annoyance, and suddenly she stopped falling, the point of the blade mere centimeters from her chest, rising and falling rapidly. The flows of Air re-arranged themselves to hold her in a standing position, and the Professor took the knife out of her limp hand as she bowed her head and cried quietly. She knew what was coming next. She had failed, and now she was going to suffer for it._

_"Foolish, arrogant, insolent hybrid!" Hojo hissed, holding up the knife in a stance that looked far more professional and trained than Aeris'. "You will not die under my care. You will think of it, hope for it, but I am not so unskilled as to let a specimen this valuable pass away before I have wrung every tiny bit of usefulness from it."_

_She felt the knife rustle through the air and stab through her left shoulder, where the arm met the torso, and she cried out in pain as Hojo twisted the hilt 90 degrees before wrenching it back out of her, tearing and biting deep. She watched in numb shock as crimson blood flowed in rivulets down her left arm, but she didn't have time for much else before the blade cut into her right shoulder moments later, repeating the process. A gasping sob ripped out of her. She couldn't feel either of her arms at all, just a terrible burning._

_"However, I often find it enjoyable keeping one on the very edge of life, bleeding away their spirit until only a fragment remains. I am told that the process can be very, very tormenting. Many of the subjects I have worked with emerged insane after I restored them." Another fountain of blood bloomed, this time on her right thigh, where the leg joined the hip. "Would you like that? To be freed from the constraints of your mortality, for a time. Hmm?"_

_"I..." Aeris was unable constitute a response as she felt the blood rising in her throat, metallic and bitter. She felt as if her limbs had all been replaced with burning wool, limp and helpless even as it hurt her._

_Hojo shook his head, driving the knife back into her left thigh, provoking another yelp from the girl. "No, that would be much too easy for you, hybrid. You think this is bad?" Laughing, he pulled out a large green orb. "Air has more than one use."_

_It started all at once. Invisible hammers pounded away merrily at her bones, as burning whips flogged at her and cruelly hooked claws dragged themselves over her flesh. Knives and daggers and other blades cut and tore and pierced, and she was unable to control the screams that overtook her. Aeris tried telling herself that it was only Air; it seemed to make it seem lighter, more bearable. But in truth, they were harder than cold steel, wielded with a force no human could rival._

_The world seemed to fade into white – all there was for her was the pain, and the screams, and the unending torment. She had no idea how long it was before it finally ended; when the pain at last died down and her sight returned, she was shivering on the ground, lying in a pool of her own blood as more flowed from the numerous wounds that she had just sustained._

Every day thereafter, the new "treatment" had been given to her along with the old one, and Aeris did not know which one was worse. The amount of blood she lost from the former more than made up for the slightly lesser amount of pain given. Well, she knew that together, the two had broken her. She had to admit it – her survival was paramount, here, and that meant that she would have to go along with whatever Hojo had in store for her.

Relaxing her muscles as much as she could on the hard steel surface, she tried to rest, knowing that it was impossible. Her nervous system had by now been so systematically damaged that only messages of pain were received with anything approaching alacrity. And besides, Hojo had said once that if he found her asleep, he would... do what he had did the first day. That was warning enough; Aeris couldn't even bring herself to think the word.

She no longer slept or dreamed, but from time to time she would have hallucinations of her former life, back when she was still free, able to enjoy herself. She remembered the smiles and hugs of her foster mother, the beauty of the flowers... would she ever see one again? Those kinds of visions had her scrambling to evict herself from them. Aeris simply could not deal with the past. More tears leaked from her eyes, swollen shut in shades of purple and blue.

A simple click of the door announced the arrival of the Professor – that, and the fact that all of her nerves seemed to stretch taut, and her heartbeat quickened. Her body, consciously or not, knew what was coming and tried to prepare in whatever ways it could. Opening her eyes as much as she could – they were as bruised as the rest of her – she saw him carrying a vial of a viscous purple-brown fluid, as well as a large yellow Materia.

Aeris almost screamed at his first words. "I am going to give you a choice, hybrid." This could not possibly bode well.

"There are only a few ways that this can possibly end, hybrid," Hojo remarked, taking up a syringe from the side table. "The authority may someday tire of this, and you will be thrown back into the slums, in your present condition. You would not survive long." He began filling the syringe with practiced ease. "Or, you could be transferred to another project, one that has a much lower survival rate. I do not doubt that you would die fairly quickly there, too."

"Or," he smiled, "you can allow me to Manipulate you in a way so as to force you to serve me unconditionally, and I would allow you to live in a much more comfortable setting. No more pain, no more torture, and you would be able to go back into the world. Then you could serve my own agenda." He gave a low laugh. "You would be educated on your birthright as a... Cetra... and allowed to tap into your true potential. Once my goals have been accomplished, I will free you of the Manipulation and allow you to go completely free."

The reply was obvious to Aeris. "Please, let me serve. Please... just no more hurt." Her voice was dry, choked with the tears and dried blood in her throat, and it came out only as a whisper, harsh and rasping.

"Good, hybrid." Hojo placed the Manipulate orb against her temple. Instinctively, Aeris tried to flinch away from it, but it felt so... cool and soothing. That was such a welcome relief. The Professor continued, "Now, for this to work as I intend it to, you must want to serve me, utterly desire it, with every particle of your consciousness. If you do not, I will consider it a sign that you changed your mind, and we can continue as before."

Aeris whimpered. She didn't want to go back to that... not after this. I want to serve him, and serve him well, fulfill his every desire. I want to do his bidding, complete his every order. _Let me serve... Please, let me serve! Please..._ "Please... bind me."

Smiling, Hojo looked down at her, and she felt a wave of sensuous pleasure wash over her, indulging and soothing and cooling every inflamed fiber of her. Moaning as it assuaged her pain, she barely heard the Professor speak above her. "Serve." And something in her soul locked in place.

Suddenly, two parts of her mind fought for control within her. One, fervent and devoted, proclaimed that the scientist was a god among men, to be worshipped and served with every possible amount of enthusiasm possible. That part of her wanted to beam and proclaim her undying devotion. But the other replied vehemently that this wasn't right; this wasn't natural. He had hurt her, abused her, and tortured her! That part of her wanted to scream in rage and shame for having voluntarily accepted this. But the former ideal's strength was growing with every rapid breath she took, and the latter was tired, weary after days of attempting to resist. It was retreating, dying, and the new Aeris surfaced.

Hojo must have felt the locking, too, because he grinned and stroked her face. "Excellent, Aeris." It was the first time she had heard him use her name. Inside of her, she felt a rising sense of happiness at having pleased him, and while that tiny part of her mind screamed and shrieked that this was wrong, it soon faded, and Aeris smiled back.

"Now, one last treatment, and you'll never have to see this room again. Do you want this?" he gestured at the syringe.

Aeris wasted no time in responding. "Yes, Professor. Please."

"Good, Aeris." The needle went in smoothly, and the thick liquid began to flow into her.

That was when she knew something was wrong. The pain, dulled temporarily by whatever it was he had done, came back full force, with greater intensity than ever before. She felt like it was some poison, coursing and burning through her veins, a menacing shadow that seemed to wax and wane with every breath. The part of her mind that was her came back, somehow pushing back the gibbering and fawning image that the Manipulation had forced on her brain.

Struggling to find breath between screams, she forced out between gritted teeth, "You. Lied. Hurts." She drew a ragged breath as the needle pulled out, but the pain remained, surging through her.

"Just as I thought... the two don't mix well. Hmm." To her horror, Hojo refilled the syringe, walking over to her other arm. "So, it seems you fought and bested the outward sign of Manipulation. I'm pleased. But the desire to serve will last until your dying day, hybrid."

"No..." she managed to groan before it penetrated her skin, adding more of the vile fluid into her. This time, everything went black, as the shadows swirled around her.

She wasn't aware of how much time had passed. The lights never turned off, and Hojo was jotting down notes in the corner. The pain from whatever it was that Hojo had injected into her had died down, but it still felt... strange. Foreign. Then she realized with a start that all of the other pain had died down, too. With widened eyes – the bruises around them was gone – she noticed that her body barely bore a wound, only soft and tender pink flesh where open rents had been before. Even the pain from the mental torture seemed to have faded; her nerves certainly didn't seem to be in spasm anymore. He... healed me? It was the only possibility, and it was impossible. Then she realized that something else shared her consciousness.

_""Aeris, my darling daughter... I was so afraid for you.""_ The voice was completely unfamiliar to her, but from the spreading sense of contentment, she knew that it was her mother. Her real mother.

_"Mom...?"_ she ventured cautiously. Hojo did not seem to have noticed.

_""Yes, it's me, daughter. You shut me out for so long...""_ The voice seemed saddened at that last.

_"I'm so sorry... I didn't know... I forgot,"_ she replied with shame.

_""Worry no longer, daughter. I'm here for you now. Hojo thought that he could use the pain to further harm you, but he underestimated your spirit. Thank you for embracing me again... I've been so lonely...""_ her mother told her in a soothing tone. _""It's going to be all right, now.""_

Aeris repressed a sob, knowing that it would alert the Professor. _"But how can I ever escape from here?"_

"_"There are ways, daughter. Now that we can speak to one another, I will tell you what you can do. In the meantime, I will give you strength and sustenance; you will no longer have to be afraid, any longer. I watched you through your agony and pain and suffering. No longer, Aeris.""_ The voice embraced her, and Aeris tried not to cry tears of happiness at the reunion.

_"So you're the one who healed me?"_ she asked.

_""No, daughter. You healed yourself, in the way of our people. I merely gave you the energy and the will to do so. With it, you can never die, so long as you embrace your birthright.""_

_"Thank... thank you..."_ Aeris murmured with joy. How could she have ever shut out this glorious person from her mind, before? She wanted to berate herself for all of those years that she had lived without her mother to guide her. Then she realized something that left her with a pang of remorse and shame.

_"I'm sorry, mother, but... I forgot your name. Please forgive me,"_ she directed at the warm, soothing presence in her mind.

Her mother hesitated a bare moment before answering. _""Rest, daughter. The next few days will be trying on your soul. Do not forget who you are, and remember above all else that what words Hojo speak, they are never true unless it serves his interests that they are true. But I will never lie to you.""_

She remembered now, five – six? – days ago when she had first been brought up here. _"Hojo said your name was... Ifalna."_

Again, that hesitation. _""Hojo lies with such ease... My name... is Jenova.""_

_"Of course, mother."_

* * *

A/N: The, plot, it thickens!

I'll be heading back to the U.S. for high school in a few days (China was fun!), so the next update may be somewhat late in coming, as will all future updates. I'm not sure how busy schoolwork will be, but I'll try to fit in at least half an hour every night to work on this.

Please review. I know I kind of changed the pacing regarding time, but it was necessary for this chapter and what happens in it. Hope it wasn't too confusing.

Good day,  
Zuranh  



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